


write me a lovesong

by putarrilla



Series: red side of the moon [1]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, POV Second Person, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26710183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putarrilla/pseuds/putarrilla
Summary: There's a quiet sort of strength in going with the flow. It's easier and safer and, after going through so much in life, it seems far better than the alternative. When Alex Danvers, a singer and media-darling, walks into Fort Rozz Café, she puts an end to Astra's infinity of repetitive days. As the two embark in the intense endevour of memoir writing — all in the middle of a world tour — they find that ignoring one's past is far more difficult when someone else is interested in it.Or the very long, very slow burn, famous!alex x writer!astra modern AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Astra/Alex Danvers
Series: red side of the moon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585087
Comments: 36
Kudos: 37





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> while watching Cher's farewell tour for the hundredth time, I suddenly thought "what would be the impact of someone so famous coming out during that time?". one thing lead to another and now here we are.
> 
> also: thank u thank u thank u to my incredible beta @Sralinchen without whom this would _not_ have worked out.

You will not wonder how simple decisions ripple into life changes. Your son will. He will never tell you about it. He will tell his friend instead, someone he trusts, someone who listens open-heartedly and who smiles at his wandering thoughts. He will choose to tell his friend and that friend will fall for him and neither you nor them will realise the irony of that. Decisions and ripples and changes.

You will not wonder about that. You’ll wonder how she seems unable to understand exactly how precious, how incredible, how breathtaking she truly is. You’ll wonder how you managed to grow into someone who is good enough for her and for your son and for your daughter and for the life you’ll have.

And that night, the one where your hair is tied too far up on your head and your apron is too big and lays sagging over your old cardigan (and even older jeans) and the coffee machine is just an asshole, that night you will wonder why the fuck a class-A celebrity is walking into your shop.

(later you’ll wonder if it’s possible to die of a full heart)

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

One of these days, you will toss the hissing piece of machinery in front of you in the garbage. You will kick it for good measure and maybe set it afire. One day, _you_ will rule _it_ and you’ll feel damn good about it. For now, you jump back as the coffee maker decides to spit out a jet of steaming hot water.

“Stupid piece of sh-” The ringing of the bell by the door stops you, forcing you to put a smile on your face and push back the loose strands of hair by your forehead. “Good evening!”

“Hey.” The woman making her way into the shop smiles apologetically, the man behind her only nods his greeting.

“I am so sorry, but I’m just closing up.”

The more you work with coffee, the more you understand the addictive nature most human beings have. The woman visibly deflates.

“Oh.” She exchanges a look with the man, her disappointment clear by the frown she’s now wearing. “Well, thank you anyway. Do you know anywhere around here that might still be open?”

“Have you tried Noonan’s, two blocks down?” You suggest. The smaller coffee machine in the corner blinks at you, still on, still relatively fast at brewing a cup.

“Oh, yeah, actually, we have. Closed.” She sighs, shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

You know who she is, you’d have to live under a rock not to. You know her songs, actually enjoy them, have even caught Non mumbling along to a few. She’s a good singer, is one of the few celebrities you can actually stand.

The light on the coffee machine is still on.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then. But thank you, have a good night.” She smiles genuinely, turns to go.

You should really allow her to leave. You’re tired and still have to clean the mess you’ve made while trying to master the beast behind you.

You should really let her go, but the more you work with coffee, the more you know how it can make or break someone’s day, the more you learn how it can be a tiny comfort in the midst of confusion.

“What were you going to order?” You ask, kicking yourself internally for being so _over the top_. Cat is right, an author’s soul is always dramatic.

She’s almost by the door, but she stops, turns slightly.

“Uhm, just a half-caf. Skinny, no sugar.” She must see something in your face, because she turns around fully. “And a quad?” She looks at the man with her for confirmation. He nods. “And a quad.”

You’re really tired.

“All right, come on.” You motion for them to come back in. She smiles wholeheartedly, then. “Venti?”

“Yeah." She sighs, taking a seat in front of the counter. "You’re a lifesaver.”

You chuckle politely while setting to work.

You’re comfortably quiet for a couple of minutes, the soft noises of the coffee maker filling the room. After three years of working here, it’s easy for you to lose yourself in the motions, in the setting of the cups, the steaming of the milk, the gurgling of the coffee as it drips down. It’s even easier to drift into thinking about writing, about the soft clicks of the keyboard, the switch between computer screen and paper as you check your notes, the small voice in your head, whispering words before you type them.

Your fingers feel the press of the keys as you pick up the lid for the first cup.

“Is this your usual closing hour?” She brings you back to reality. You’ve been brought back enough times to barely flinch anymore.

“Give or take fifteen minutes, yes.”

“And do you guys deliver?”

Closing the second cup, you walk over to the pastry corner and sigh. If they are drinking this much caffeine this late, they should at least eat something.

“Depends on the time, the size of the order, and where to.” You answer, throwing a couple of sticky buns in a paper bag.

“So, if we were to call, say…. around nine p.m.?” She follows your movements with her eyes.

“Our barista has usually already left by then.” You place the cups in a holder, bring everything over by the register. “Sorry.”

“Ah, it was a long shot.” She shrugs.

You give her a smile as you ring up the order.

“That will be $6.40.”

She gives you a ten.

“Keep the change.” She reaches for the holder, ignoring the paper bag. You push it towards her as she pulls the cups. You both stop briefly, eyes meeting. It’s almost a standoff. She quirks an eyebrow.

“On the house.” You nod. She smirks.

“Thank you, uhm…” Her eyes flicker to the tag on your apron. “Astra.”

“Have a good evening, _ma’am_. Sir.” You refuse to acknowledge her status. She may be famous, but, truthfully, you don’t particularly care.

The man, still standing by the door, chuckles.

She holds your gaze for two more seconds before turning away and leaving.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

When you get home later that night, you forget to tell Non, your mind occupied by the damn coffee machine and the idea of an article you’d love to write. You go to sleep without jotting the idea down and, as usual, you dream about it and forget it as soon as you wake up.

It’s a constant, one you know will only end when you pick up a pencil and start writing again.

You long for it. You can feel this unsettling anxiety, deep and never-ending, behind your every thought. You’re a writer, through and through; One addicted to writing, at that, and three years without giving in is a long time.

As you go through your morning routine the next day, moving silently around your husband, a mindless rhythm brought on by years of marriage, you wonder if Cat was right, if a five-year break had really been a mistake.

Maybe it wouldn’t feel like a death sentence after all, to see your name on another book cover. Maybe it would feel like coming home, to spend late nights with your editor (your friend) reviewing pages and pages and pages of your work. Maybe your life wouldn’t feel like an endless sea of identical days.

Maybe.

You help Non open up the shop, place down the chairs you’d put up minutes (hours) earlier and receive the day’s deliveries.

Going to your little office in the back when your half-time baristas come in, you open up your email as you cradle a mug of tea, knees drawn up towards your chest. And there, in your inbox, as if the woman had somehow read your mind, sits an email from Cat.

Your heart skips. Your throat squeezes. Your hand shoots away from the mouse as if electrocuted. You stare at the screen for a while, your foot bouncing against the seat.

DO NOT IGNORE glares accusingly at you from the subject line.

“Hey, have you seen my recipe book?” Non knocks on the open door. You don’t startle and he starts looking around the room. You softly slap his hands away when he goes for the papers on your desk.

“Yeah, it’s behind that waste of metal you bought.”

“Just because you don’t know how to use it doesn’t mean it is bad.” He kisses your head before leaving. You can still remember when those kisses would warm you, if not for affection, then by the simple fact of having someone who cared.

When he disappears, you place your feet back on the ground.

You close your email, open Excel and pull up the expenses sheet instead.

Cat's waited three years, she can wait a bit more.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

It takes her four days to come back and, when she does, you’re wearing the same sweater, but with an apron that actually _fits_. It’s earlier this time, a few students from NCU hunched over books in the corner. When the doorbell rings and you all have time to look, you hear a muffled squeal from one of the students. They have wide eyes and you watch as the woman gives them a tight grin, waves. She’s answered with three frantic waves back.

This time, she doesn’t leave. She and the man sit at a table in the opposite corner to the girls, and eat a sticky bun each. You mind your business, try to catch up on inventory. Once they’re done, she brings you the trays with an easy grin. 

You don’t tell Non and you don’t reply to Cat and it becomes a routine.

She shows up, always late at night, always with the same guy and always ordering the same thing. It goes on for a month.

Cat sends more emails. You begin to read them, but still don’t reply.

They start marking your weeks, that woman’s appearances. The only breaks in the repetitive cycle of your life.

You don’t actually talk much past mindless chit-chat while you prepare her order, but you can feel her looking. You meet her eyes once or twice, and you see the spark, feel a kindred one flashing deep in your chest. You indulge yourself. It’s been forever since you’ve felt anything similar.

After another two more weeks go by, you just assume she’s moved nearby and is too lazy to work a proper coffee machine.

One day, it changes. She comes by herself.

“No friend today?” You greet her. The shop is busy for this time of night, and the song currently playing on the radio pulls on your headache.

“Nah, I know my way around by now.” She smiles, a habit of hers, and sits on her usual stool.

You give her a half grin in response as you retie your hair.

“Just the half-caf, then?”

“And a sticky bun.” You both say.

Turning to wash your hands, your smile is a bit more genuine.

Once her order is done, she doesn’t look ready to move, so you place the mug and the plate on the counter.

“How did your sister like them?” You recall something she’d said on her last visit as she bites into the pastry.

“She freaked out. Wouldn’t stop talking about ‘em for the whole day.”

“Well, I was aware that they were good, but not _that_ good.”

“Kara takes carbs very seriously.”

She washes the bun down with a couple of sips of her coffee and looks at you. Your headache is too strong today for the spark, so you take the rag tucked into your apron and wipe non-existing stains from the counter.

“Can I ask you something? It might be a little weird.”

You feel a jab through your brain, but you tuck the rag back into your pocket and nod.

“Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Ever since I first came here, I just had this feeling I’d seen you somewhere.”

“Perhaps I just have one of those faces.”

“Oh, no, you definitely don’t.” She deadpans.

You don’t know how to react to that.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

When you see the figure walking past the shop’s window, you ponder whether or not you’re fit enough to escape through the backdoor and actually outrun her, because you have no doubt that Cat Grant can absolutely run in heels.

She pushes the door open and you’re grateful the café is empty.

“Oh, so you _are_ alive.” As usual, she bypasses greetings. Your editor’s never been fond of unnecessary words, neither on paper nor spoken.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You concentrate on putting the washed mugs away, almost feeling the click of her stilettos on your skin as she comes closer.

“Well, after my thirteenth email went unanswered, I did begin to wonder.” Cat stops some feet away, drops her purse with a heavy thud on a nearby table. “Honestly, Astra, you could at least have given me the courtesy of a ‘ _fuck off’_.”

“Last time I chose to do that, you showed up here and gave me an ear-full regardless. So, same result, less work, I suppose.”

The fact that Cat is _right_ doesn’t escape you. It would have been easier to reply, kinder too. You, however, are already aware of the discussion you’re about to have and you’re also incredibly conscious about how much it will hurt and how it will not change your mind.

“Don’t be a fucking smartass right now.”

“Look, I am sorry, all right?” You close the cupboard, actually step around the bar. “I’ve read them. I know you want me to come back, part of me wants to come back as well, but I am not going to. Not right now, perhaps not even once my five years are up.”

“Ah, you read them, did you? How nice of you. And did you by any chance also read the part where we want to offer you a thirty-five percent royalty deal for individual material? We’ve never done this for any other writer.”

“Yes, well, I hope you are all aware that the shitshow that was my last book was a once in a lifetime event. You'd probably lose money if I were to take you up on that offer.”

“Astra, I’ve told you this before, I’ll tell you again: that book was one of the best pieces of writing I have ever read and you did it effortlesly. You should be proud of it.”

“And _I_ will tell you again: I am _not_ going to blow up my life another time, Cat. Not for the publishing house, not for you, not for anything." Your voice raises an octave. You refuse to let it waver. "Everything that man said, everything he put out on the media about me did twice the damage my book ever did to him.”

“When you say that, you not only sound naive, but also selfish. His reputation is tainted, yours is not.”

You stare at her, waiting.

A few seconds later, you see her deflate (as expected), perfectly manicured fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. And you see how she changes from the mogul, the no-nonsense, almighty business woman, and morphs into your friend (a very irritated friend, but a friend nonetheless). Cat sighs, takes a deep breath in and:

“At the end of the day, all the stories he leaked to the press were bad, but none close to being as bad as what you wrote about the awful things he's done. It was traumatizing, I know that. I cannot tell you enough how I wish you hadn’t had to go through that or how much I despise him. Trust me, I’ve had him blackballed from any and all reputable publishing houses this side of the Atlantic. But you cannot give up. I refuse to allow you to let him win.”

Leaning your back against the counter, you shake your head and cross your arms.

“Allow me?” You smirk, Cat rolls her eyes. “I’m not letting him win, I am simply protecting myself.”

“That man didn’t like what you had to say, so he tried to silence you, render you untrustworthy-” Cat stops when the bell rings.

You twist your neck to see your famous customer walking in and regretting doing so almost immediately.

“Hey, are you closing up?” She looks between you and Cat, both with crossed arms and frowns. It doesn’t take much to read the room.

“Oh, no, no, I am not. Come on in.” You catch Cat’s eyes as you settle back behind the bar. You know she recognized the newcomer as quickly as anyone else would.

“It’s okay if you are, though. Really.”

“No, today is just a slow one.”

You make her coffee, ears tuned to what’s behind you.

“Cat Grant, owner and main editor of Grant Books.” Cat’s tone is as professional as you ever heard it and you can practically see the smirk she wears and her extended hand.

“Oh, uhm, nice to meet you. Alex Danvers.”

“I’m familiar with your work, Miss Danvers. How's the new album coming along?”

A pause.

"How do you know about that?"

"A lot of ears in a lot of places."

Another pause.

"It's good, just finished recording today, actually."

"Well, I can't wait to listen to it."

Turning around, you set the mug and the plate in front of your customer.

“Would you like anything, Cat?” You offer, more out of politeness than anything else.

“Yes, but I’m still not sure if you’re selling it.” She meets your eyes and the sharpness she’d put aside to talk to your company is suddenly back. “So I’ll wait in your office.”

“There really is no need…” You give up when Cat shoulders her purse. There’s little room for opposing when the blonde decides on an argument.

“Miss Danvers, if you’re ever in the market for publishing your story, please don’t hesitate in calling me.” Cat takes a card from her coat’s pocket, hands it to the woman before disappearing to the back of the shop.

There’s a minute of silence as Alex starts eating. You begin to clean what you’d dirtied to make her order.

“You’re Astra In-Ze, aren’t you? The one who wrote that exposé on Max Lord?”

You don’t flinch. You are not ashamed. _You’re not._

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” You dry your hands, lean against the sink.

Something that’s always struck you about her is the openness she exudes. When you meet her eyes, they’re still kind, so you let your shoulders drop.

“But yes, that’s me.”

“See? I told you I knew you.” She bites into her sticky bun.

“I don’t know what you read on those papers, Miss Danvers, but I can guarantee you know less than you think.” You twist the cloth in your hands, grip it more tightly than you need to, the fibers burning your skin.

“Oh, I’m aware.” Alex sips her coffee. You wonder why this feels like a revelation. “I learned a long time ago to not trust Max too much.”

“So you've read the book, then?”

She looks sheepishly down into the remainants of her coffee.

“I bought it, but then I went on the road and things got… busy.”

“Got it.” You chuckle.

“But everyone I know in the industry has read it.”

“That sounds… scary.”

“No, they all loved it.” She places two bills beside the plate, you know it’s way more than what she owes. “Could you give me a couple more buns to go? My sister’s been on my case about bringing her some and today is my last day here.”

“Oh, of course.” You grab the tongs and the paper bag, your stomach twisting, your belly cold. Back to repetitive, never-ending days for you.

As she leaves and you prepare yourself for round two with Cat, you catch a glimpse of the small coffee machine in the corner. You turn it off.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Months later (you don’t bother to check exactly how many) an email pops up in your inbox that should have gone to spam. Curiosity gets the best of you.

* * *

**Date:** Tues, 4 may 04 08:33PM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Finally read it

It was brilliant. Your writing is incredible.

AD.

* * *

You delete it and wonder how the fuck a company got your email address.

Another month. Alex announces her new album.

You get another email. You still don’t understand what’s happening.

* * *

**Date:** Wed, 16 June 04 05:11PM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Read a couple more

I picked up two other titles of yours to read during the promo junket. Went through them over the weekend. They are fascinating.

AD.

* * *

You delete it.

Three more weeks pass.

* * *

**Date:** Thu, 1 July 04 09:57AM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Burning the competition

Your first book has officially entered the list of my top favorite novels. Why did you ever stop writing? Also, I hope your editor gave me the right address.

AD.

PS: I never realized how much I came to rely on carbs until I started craving sticky buns in the evening. How much do you want for the recipe?

* * *

Your eyes are fixed on _AD_ for ten minutes. You can’t bring yourself to delete this one.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Remorse, although ever-present in your life, is not something you’re entirely comfortable with. It isn’t at all useful, since it usually only appears after it is much too late to fix whatever its cause may be.

There are a plethora of things which you regret. The way you left your country, hurting your sister, agreeing to write that last book.

You have never been madly in love with your husband, nor have you ever felt the need to share everything with him. He’s known you since you were both young and naive and the worst had yet to happen. He has been by your side since your need to run was greater than your sense of responsibility, your sense of family.

The two of you have always been more or less loyal to each other and, through him, you’ve learned about self-control. He has always centered himself, consciously moving through life and respecting your boundaries, your limitations, and you’ve made yourself accept his love through a mixture of osmosis and complacency.

You think he knows that, never demanding a wild demonstration of affection.

He’s your safety, your known land in a place that in many ways is still foreign.

When you start writing Alex Danvers back, a stiffness begins to appear in your throat every time you meet your husband’s eyes. 

Non is patient, but blind. He sees nothing wrong with the extra hour you now spend on your computer.

There is, in fact, nothing wrong, not really. You talk about your books and her music, and it’s been an incredibly long while since you last had a conversation with someone so genuinely interested in the possibility of your stories.

Alex doesn’t seem to think much about what she says or writes, barely seems to read through her emails before hitting send, judging by the one or two typos her messages usually encompass.

Still, you look at Non, throat tight, _betrayal_ reverberating in your mind.

You realize that, this time, you have the power to prevent this particular remorse from entering your collection. This time, you can demonstrate, if not love, at least loyalty.

He pops into your office on a Thursday, placing a cup of tea in your hand and a squeeze on your shoulder, his way of saying goodbye as he leaves the shop for the day. Marriage is an active choice, you remind yourself.

“Non, could you stay for a moment?”

He nods without a second thought, leaning against the bookshelf.

“What’s up?”

You tell him slowly, mindfully keeping any heaviness from your voice. It is not a big deal.

At first, he seems thrilled. A celebrity frequenting his café has never crossed his mind as a possibility. As you continue to mention encounter upon encounter, however, his smile begins to diminish.

By the end, his lips are pressed in a thin line, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. You can only imagine the words he is forcing himself to withhold.

(A small, confusing part of you is almost eager for him to unleash them, break his controlled demeanor. You are generally thankful for how centered he is, but after so long together, you know how isolating it can be. If he lets go, at the very least, it would signify he too chooses honesty.)

“I’m glad you’re making a new friend.” Non walks to you, kisses your head.

Instead of remorseful, you’re strangely irritated.

Yet another emotion that makes you shift in your seat.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Looking at the calendar, it’s been six months. Alex Danvers’ album has been on the top of the charts since its release eight weeks prior and has seven grammy nominations. The CD is on the café’s constant rotation.

You’re about to step out of your office and go to the front of the store, force yourself to officially start your day, when the landline rings.

“Fort Rozz coffee shop, how can I-”

“Listen, I don’t know how the fuck you managed to pull this off, but you’re taking this deal if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Cat? What are you talking about?” It’s too early for this.

“Alex Danvers wants to publish a memoir and she wants you to write it.”

It’s a good thing you’re still sitting down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated  
> also: stream Laura Benanti's new self-titled album


	2. two.

“I thought you had more time.”

He seems slightly annoyed, which in and of itself is already surprising.

“I did.” You pull on your blazer, finding his eyes through the mirror. “I do. I just- I owe it to Cat to at least hear the proposal.”

“She _has_ been very patient.”

“Indeed.”

“But are you just going to listen or are you going to accept it?”

“Non.”

“I simply want to know whether or not to put a hiring sign up in the window.”

“If I decide to take the job, I’ll put the sign up myself.” You step away from the vanity, pick up your shoulder bag, kiss his cheek goodbye, and step out of the bedroom, all in one swift sequence.

“Promise me we’ll talk before you make a decision.”

He follows you into the living room. Your hand rests on the doorknob.

“I promise.”

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Besides publishing good books, if there’s one thing Grant Books does well, it is decorating. The meeting room is wide and clean, the floor to ceiling windows showing National City’s full extension and the white tabletop glistening in the soft midday sunlight that manages to pass through the tinted glass.

Coming into this room will never cease to turn your stomach. As you take a seat facing the door, you can still remember the first time you did so, ten years prior and recently immigrated. Cat had strutted down the hallway, much like she’s doing now, barking orders at her poor assistant.

Although her hair had been longer and yours shorter, neither of you have changed much physically in the decade since she first laid eyes on your manuscript of _Burning to Ashes_. It’s comical, however, to think how everything has changed internally. You’d both gotten married, she’d gotten divorced, had a kid. You’d stayed married and never found the right time to add another person into your life.

“Ah, so we’re punctual now, are we?” Cat pushes the glass door open, sending the woman behind her away with a flick of her fingers.

“Are you ever going to stop traumatizing your assistants?” You say as a payback.

She quirks a brow and sits by your side. Cat briefly touches your arm before opening a folder she’d brought. In her silent language, the touch screams _thank you_. It’d taken her four phone calls and one personal visit to convince you to come today. You know she’s relieved.

Your hand finds its way to the pendant on your necklace as you read through the contract she places in front of you. This is a copy, of course. You'd read another one the previous night and it’s a good deal. Once they make back the investment, 10% of the sell-profits goes to you, 20% goes to Alex and the rest to the house.

Considering that the person entering the room is one of the most famous singers in the world right now, you’re sure there _will_ be profit. For all parties involved.

“Miss Danvers, Mister Henshaw, good morning.” Cat stands, smile bright, one hand shooting up to greet them, the other leaning powerfully on the table. Her small frame has never prevented her from owning whichever room she’s in. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for having us.” Alex smiles, taking Cat’s hand briefly before turning towards you.

There it is. The spark.

You let go of your necklace.

“Glad you could come, Miss In-Ze.” You shake hands.

“Astra is fine.”

“Okay.” Spark. (What the hell is wrong with you?) “Astra, this is my agent, Hank Henshaw.”

The man by her side grins, greeting you too, but the kindness in Alex’s eyes is matched with the suspicion in his.

Cat’s assistant silently appears, sitting at the far end of the table with a personal computer, probably to register everything.

You all take your seats, Alex directly in front of you.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Serious affairs have a tendency to wear someone out faster than most things, especially if they go on for a long, uninterrupted amount of time.

So far you have gone through the contract twice, renegotiated the profit percentage (you thought it would be harder for Cat to release that additional ten percent, but she’d done it with such a small sigh you’d almost missed it) and talked about what the process would be like.

Alex is about to begin an enormous world tour. Your job is to go along for a while and capture both the impact of the tour and the person headlining it.

The idea is, if not completely insane, incredibly interesting. You’d get to visit different states with all expenses paid, all the while getting to see the backstage of a project bound for awards. You’re curious. Of course you are. You’d have to be a fool not to be.

But you knew most of these details before coming here today.

The four of you are going in circles and weariness began emanating from both Cat and Henshaw half an hour ago.

“Listen,” Alex interrupts her agent’s commentary on a paragraph you’ve been over three times, “this is all well and good, but it seems to me that the bottom line is this: will you do it or will you not?”

She looks straight at you, fingers lazily laced, resting on the table, dark red fingernails against the stark-white glass. You sustain her gaze for a couple of seconds. The turning in your stomach from walking in hasn’t faded much and the heat coming up your neck, burning your ears, doesn’t help in the slightest. As you look at each other, you finally rest against the back of the chair. This is a match you can take.

“I still have questions.”

“Let’s hear ‘em.” She leans back.

A match all right.

“Okay.” You force your leg to stop bouncing, pull a hair strand behind your ear. “Why the sudden urge to do this? You're young.”

“I feel like it might be a good time and that things will change after this year, after this tour. I don’t know why. And besides, I want to leave something behind, something that isn’t music.”

“Why?”

“Because I love music and it’s deep within me.” She pauses, seems to ponder whether or not to continue, ultimately deciding to do so, “but there are certain things I can’t convey in four-minute tracks.”

There’s more to this than she lets on. She starts picking on her polish.

You make a mental note to get it out, eventually.

“What else?” Her eyes are still on you.

“Why me, specifically?” You remember the emails, remember the back and forth you had about the closing chapter of _Burning_ once you finally replied.

Modest is something people use to describe you more often than not, though never when it comes to your work. Denying your talent isn’t helpful, not when it was the only thing you had to hold on to for so long. Yes, you’d given it up, but it was _never_ about the quality of your books.

You are an excellent fucking writer.

There are hundreds of others out there.

“Because of Stella. Because it was the first time I could fully relate to a fictional character.” Her eyes shift to the papers in front of her, and then, realizing there are still three other people in the room, she fixes her posture, clears her throat. “The idea of writing a memoir is not new, we have discussed it for a couple of years now, but we never found the right voice. I’ve read your work and I think… I think yours is the right one.”

“The process is very different from the finished product, Miss Danvers.”

“Does that really matter, if the end result is good?”

You smirk, the irony lost to the people around you.

“I never would’ve taken you as machiavellian. This one? Maybe.” You gesture to the woman sitting beside you. Cat huffs. “But definitely not you.”

“I prefer 'determined',” Alex deadpans.

You all chuckle. A wall lifts in your mind and you allow your shoulders to drop slightly.

“Have you read Maxwell Lord’s interviews about working with me?” It’s like a ripple goes through the room. Your friend stiffens by your side, calling your name under her breath. Hank shifts in his chair. You continue looking at Alex.

“A couple, yes. But Max has a tendency to lie when it’s most convenient.”

Now it’s Hank’s time to reprimand his client.

“He wasn’t lying about that. I take this very seriously and my questions will make you uncomfortable at the very least, possibly furious. I don’t believe in glossing over stories or hard parts; not in publishing, anyway.” You reach for the cup of water in front of you for a second, notice how thin the glass actually is. You meet her eyes again. “Something I made very clear to Lord and he chose to ignore is that at the end of the day, my writing is still my own, Miss Danvers. I’ll write the story that comes to the surface, not a puff piece.”

It’s the first time you see doubt in her expression. Good. It means she’s not an idiot.

“Are you still sure I am the right voice for you?”

There’s a pause, a silent exchange between agent and artist. You take some sips of your water. Cat is probably moments away from murdering you.

“I read a couple of Max’s interviews, yes,” Alex begins to speak again. You keep your fingers around your cup, now resting on the coaster. “But I also read your book about him. Nothing you wrote was untrue. And I don’t have anything to hide. So yes, I’m still sure.”

“Everyone has something to hide, even if they don’t know what it is.” You remember the moment you’d unlocked Max’s real secret. The click of his jaw, his set posture, his closed fists. Shattered glass.

There’s always something. Always. And sick as it may be, you do enjoy discovering it.

Alex shakes her head, chuckles.

“If you’re trying to persuade me to give up, it’s not working.” She leans forward one more time, dark (chipped) nailpolish against white. “However _,_ _you_ don’t need to decide now. You can take the contract home, think it over."

You let go of the cup, worried of squeezing it too tightly.

“Or you could just fucking sign it,” Cat whispers, probably not meaning for you to hear.

Alex still looks at you, kind, calm, convinced.

You _could_ just fucking sign it.

~~_lovelovelove_~~

_As soon as the office door clicks shut, his cool and collected exterior falls. It doesn’t actually surprise you. After so many interviews, his reactions are easy to predict, his buttons blink bright and colourful and you know how to push all of them, including the big, red, ballistic one. And you have._

_“What is it, exactly? Delusion or stupidity?” Max walks closer to where you sit with heavy steps. “Because those are the only reasons why you could ever believe I would allow this shit to be published.”_

_He throws the proof copy on the desk. You watch as it slides over the smooth surface, stopping inches away from the end._

_“You know, you were supposed to be a good writer. That’s why I hired you in the first place, to write me a biography worthy of my name. And you repay me with this? How dare you?”_

_Max steps closer, leaning over you._

_“I have never worked with such an ungrateful, stubborn, deceiving b-”_

_“Let me remind you,” you stand at once, making him jump back to prevent your head from colliding with his nose, “that you didn’t hire me, we made an agreement. I was never writing_ for _you. So how the hell do I owe you anything?”_

_“Really? No one outside of fiction even knows your name! Writing my story was your big break.”_

_“Working with you is no one’s big break.”_

_He quirks an eyebrow, nostrils flaring._

_“This is defamatory, and not only that, it’s a breach of contract. You feel like you’re winning? Wait until I’m done. You’ll be out of a job and your little friend will be out of her company.”_

_You chuckle. Maybe you_ are _delusional. Delusional for having spent so much time actually believing the calculated façade he likes to portray. Delusional for having wasted any amount of effort into trying to write any good word about this man._

_“Max, you are so focused on your own ego, on your own power, your own wealth, that you didn’t even bother to read the contract, did you?”_

_“If you think my legal team left you any hole to weasel this_ book _through–”_

_“Oh, no. Not a hole. A fucking crater.” You pick up a page of the contract you’d set aside, the one he’d somehow missed with the proof copy, sparing him a look before starting to read. “Paragraph two, article D: The Client can suggest the tone in which the Work shall be written. Furthermore, the Client can review the Work and suggest changes to the Work for revision by the Author (a “Revision Request”). The Author may, but shall not be required to, follow the tone or make any or all of such suggested changes.”_

_He rips the page from your hand, again, predictably, and deep lines mark his forehead as he furiously goes through the printed words. Ever so slowly, he brings the paper away from his face._

_“There’s no way this passed.”_

_“But it did.” You shrug. He shakes._

_Defeat gradually washes through his posture._

_“It’s far from over, though.”_

_You know a lot about this man, know all his buttons and have pushed them too, but the hatred you spot as he turns to leave is new. And it will haunt you._

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

“So you’re going, just like that?”

“It is not just like that, Non. There’s still plenty of time before the tour begins.”

“And you’re staying away for how long, exactly?”

“A month, to start.”

“So it may be longer?”

“Maybe, yes.”

“How am I supposed to find someone to stand in for you when you’re not even sure how long this is going to take?”

You sigh, place your dinner plate in the sink. As refreshing as this sudden expression of discontentment from him is, it doesn’t make you feel any better.

“I don’t know, perhaps you could do it. It is your shop, after all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The two of you will not fight, you decide. This is not how your day will end.

“Nothing, dear. All I am saying is that you don’t need to hire someone else. We could make do.”

“So on top of recipe testing and the day shift, I’ll have to balance your workload as well?”

This will not turn into an argument.

“I don’t know, Non. It was only a suggestion.”

Separated by the kitchen island, you stare at each other. From all the matters he could choose to act this way over, this particular one is not ideal.

He’s angry, unrelenting. That is new.

You’re tired (you _were_ excited). That is not.

“Can’t you just be happy for me? This is a really good opportunity.”

“We were supposed to talk first.” He leaves the room.

As the bedroom door slams shut, you cover your face with both hands, sighing.

Maybe you shouldn’t have signed it.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Alexandra “Alex” Danvers was born on January 6th, 1973 to parents Eliza (neé Smith) and Jeremiah Danvers. The family lived in the city of Metropolis until Alex was 2 years old, by which point they moved to rural Midvale, where they kept a small farm.

By the age of 12, Alex had won three local musical competitions and had mastered both guitar and piano. Jeremiah was musically inclined and encouraged his daughter to practice anything that spiked her interest. Alex has cited her father as the main reason for her career and dedicated her first studio album, _Beginner’s Luck,_ to him. Jeremiah died in a car accident when Alex was 14 years old.

Graduating high school with honors, Alex moved to National City to pursue a degree in music composition. In her last semester, she met producer-turned-agent Hank Henshaw and the two quickly forged a friendship that eventually evolved into a business partnership.

Famously nicknamed “Miss Precision”, Alex is known for her well built albums and “eras”, as well as for her attention to stage production and performance. She has released new material consistently throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, experimenting with Rock, R&B and Pop, summing up a total of six studio albums and two EPs. Alex is one of the few artists to have had all of the lead singles of an album simultaneously on Billboard’s top 10.

She has an adoptive sister named Kara, one year her junior, to whom she’s very close. 

A lot has been speculated about the singer’s sexuality over the years, many affirming she is, in fact, gay. The rumours were fueled in 1996, when pictures of Alex walking hand in hand with an unnamed woman made their way through the media. Alex never commented on the pictures nor the rumors, and has vetoed the topic from any interviews.

_~~lovelovelove~~ _

* * *

**Date:** Mon, 2 Aug 04 07:20AM MET

 **From:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** About the project

Dear Miss Danvers,

Seeing as we’re set to begin working together in two weeks, I hoped we could meet beforehand to discuss the process properly. I think it would be best for both of us to set our boundaries before we start. I know you must be busy planning your tour, so we could keep it short and simple. What would you say to meeting me for coffee at Noonan’s next time you’re in town? Please let me know.

Kind regards,

Astra In-Ze.

* * *

* * *

**Date:** Thu, 5 Aug 04 09:43AM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Re: About the project

That sounds great, actually. I’ll arrive in National City on Monday the 9th for rehearsals. I have windows on Tuesday and Wednesday morning, at 10AM. Would any of those work for you?

AD.

* * *

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

The stark difference between Noonan’s and Fort Rozz is clear from the second you step in. Instead of the soft, mismatched wood surfaces, muted green tones and, frankly slightly overcrowded shop you’re used to, Noonan’s is filled with sharp lines, colorful window panes and an open plan floor. Both places have their own charm, you concede, but the part of you which longs for orderly things feels guiltily more comfortable in your husband’s business adversary.

Swiftly running your eyes through the shop, you spot Alex sitting in a sunlit corner, a steaming cup in front of her. Thankfully, the line to the register is short, allowing you to place your order in a couple of minutes before joining her.

Alex greets you with sparkling eyes while taking a long sip from her mug, followed by a demour, yet genuine smile as she brings the ceramic down.

“Hello.” You nod, setting your bag in one of the chairs and a mirrored smile on your own lips.

“Good morning.”

“I’m sorry for being late, I had a previous appointment and it ran longer than I anticipated.”

“That’s alright, I’ve only just gotten here myself.”

You look pointedly at the mug in her hands and she chuckles softly.

“And I don’t mind waiting. I think it’s the first chance I’ve had to think about _nothing_ in weeks,” she finishes.

You hum in understandment, shrugging off your coat, too warm now that you’re protected from the winds blowing outside, probably indicating a summer storm on the way.

“And did you manage to do so?” You sit in front of her, something a little less daunting the more times you do it.

Alex’s lips press strongly against each other, her smile morphing into a sheepish grin as she looks outside the yellow-tinted window.

“Not really, no.”

It doesn’t surprise you, not with the amount of press on this tour. Almost all tickets for the first leg are sold out and announcements of added dates are being made every other day. Your anxiety had flared up just by reading a couple of articles about it, you can only imagine what being centerfront in it must be like.

“Do you feel ready?”

“Well, let’s say that if I’m not ready by now, I don’t think I’ll ever be.” She drums her fingers against the side of the mug, eyes turning back to yours. “How about you? All packed up? I asked my assistant to send you an email with some tips on what to bring.”

A waitress places a cup in front of you, the fruity scent of Earl Grey almost immediately cutting through the warm mix of baked goods and strong coffee in the atmosphere. Truthfully, there are very few things you love more than tea. The woman places the milk jug and a handful of packaged sweeteners on the table before leaving. You set to work on fixing your cup.

“I received that, yes. Thank you, by the way.”

“No problem, most people never know what to bring the first time around.”

“I was a bit lost, honestly. The list really was very helpful.” You stir the final mixture, glancing up to see Alex watching your swirling spoon. You both sip your respective drinks before continuing.

“I can still remember packing for the first time. My sister kept insisting I take more and more stuff and when we stepped out of the house with three suitcases, Hank just _stared_ at me.” She says it fondly, amusement laced in her words. “I had no idea of how small a tour bus actually was. You won’t have to worry too much about that, of course.”

“Don’t you use those anymore?”

“We do, but now we can afford to hire the bigger ones.” The two of you chuckle. “Being cramped like that for eight weeks made me grow up real quick.”

“How many people were with you?”

“Ten people total, eleven with the driver.”

“That is… a lot.”

“It is, but I don’t know, they were a great bunch. We became kind of like family.”

“Are they still with you?”

“Most of them, yeah. Although we don’t all hang out as much, I guess. The tours kept on growing and so did the personnel and so did the amount of stuff I had to do. Doesn’t exactly leave me that much time for chitchat.”

“Two hours of interviews per day probably won’t help with that, will it?”

“Probably not.” Alex bites the inside of her cheek, looking at you for a few seconds. You wait. “Is this how it’s going to be like? The _interviews,_ I mean.”

“Sometimes, yes. But I’ll probably ask you to be a bit more detailed when talking about these kinds of anecdotes. I need to find a thread for the story and, in order to do that, I must get to know you first.” You sip your tea, let the warm liquid coat your tongue before continuing. “And we’ll get into more serious subjects as well, obviously.”

“You seem very worried about these _serious subjects,_ ” Alex frowns, a smirk still on her mouth. “What are you planning on asking me?”

She means it jokingly, you’re aware, but it is not something you’re willing to make light of.

“About your father, for instance. How he was like, what you felt upon the accident, how your family dealt with it.”

It is as if a shockwave goes through the woman, the loose, comfortable demeanor quashed at once, her shoulders setting straight and the muscles on her face slacking, a controlled expression taking over. She looks outside again, fingers stilled against the ceramic of her mug.

“And what if I don’t feel comfortable talking about that?”

“We can move on.” You nod, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “For a while.”

That brings her back towards you. It’s the second time you see doubt in her eyes.

“How do you mean?”

“I do prefer to eventually come back to skipped subjects, but if even then you still don’t want to talk about it, we can let it go.”

Alex remains still, mind obviously working.

“Okay.” She grants.

“I wanted to request something, though.”

“And what would that be?”

“That you lift the usual vetoes you put in place for generic interviews.”

She scoffs, leaning against the booth.

“What?!”

“I know you have a few topics you’ve never discussed and I suspect it’s because you prohibited your interviewers from touching on them. I think you probably will give me a list with those topics in the next couple of days, too.”

It’s standard practice for most celebrities, Cat had warned you before your last book, and sure enough, Max had presented you with a list of his own during your first day working together. 

“So I have no control over what I talk about? In a book about my own life? You do realize how unfair that is, right?”

“You do have control. I won’t press you into any sordid matters, Miss Danvers. I have no interest in gossip, only the truth. If you honestly don’t want to talk about something, you can tell me so when we come to that, not before.”

“But some things should be off limits.” She crosses her arms loosely and you can see you must change tactics.

“I agree.” You lean forward, counter her closed movements with openness. “Just… Look at it this way: every great story, every renowned work of fiction, doesn’t just tell the readers _about_ the character. It teaches them how that character works, lets them into their system enough that their actions are comprehensible, that their feelings are almost logical. It’s a great amount of exposure, of course, but that’s why we connect to books.”

“That’s why I connected to Stella.” She grants, mentioning the main character of your first novel.

You nod.

“You told me you want to leave something behind and that you have nothing to hide.”

“That’s true.”

The corners of your lips pull up slightly, but you know now is no time to be wry.

“Honestly, I don’t completely believe you, but only because we all have things we’d rather keep away from the public eye. I can promise you that I won’t touch on those things, since they don’t always pertain to memoirs. I’m just asking you to give me enough freedom to write something logical.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re really demanding?” She quirks her head, no bite behind her words.

“Well, as it’s been widely publicised, I didn’t exactly have the easiest time writing my last project like this.”

You’re afraid the slight humour will go unheard, but she chuckles and you sigh, relieved.

“I promise there will be nothing distasteful or inflammatory.”

“I believe you.” Alex uncrosses her arms. “But you can understand why this feels uncomfortable, right? It’s like an intense edition of 20 questions.”

“I can see that.” You don’t speak afterwards, allowing some time for her to think, and the soft chatter of the shop quickly filters into the bubble you two had somehow created. It is slightly unnerving to realise how easily it all had faded to the background as soon as you’d sat down. You focus on finishing your tea.

“All right, I can agree to that.” She complies. “But I have two conditions."

“Which are...?”

"One, my love life stays out of it. It doesn't really exist, so it's not worth getting into."

It's not ideal, directly contradicts her statement from minutes ago that she is secret-free, but you nod your agreement

“And two, you play too.” Alex smirks again, relaxing by the second.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, if you get to ask me a thousand questions, including particularly personal ones, I think it’s only fair I get to ask at least twenty myself.”

“About _me_?” It takes all of your self awareness not to stare at her, agape.

“You get to know a hell of a lot about my life and I get to know a little bit about yours.” She shrugs. Simple.

“That seems… off topic.”

“I know.” She leans forward, somehow locking you into yet another match of wills. “But it makes this whole arrangement more equitable. Also, you seem like a very interesting person.”

It is not the right choice, you tell yourself, you're surely bound to regret it sooner or later.

“Besides, it’s not like you have anything to hide, right?” Alex quirks an eyebrow, I _dare you laying_ across her eyes and, like you’ve done with the late coffees and multiple emails and this whole freaking project, you relent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, your comments are very much appreciated!


	3. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, alright, time to _really_ get into the story.

Soft and ever-present, there’s a buzz of anticipation in the air.

Avoiding rushing crew members here and there, you are guided through busy corridors to Alex’s dressing room by her assistant.

Your bags are packed and Non is somewhat resigned to you being away, judging by the way he’d reached for you late last night. It’d been quiet and quick, as you’re used to, and you’re somehow glad to get it out of the way for a few months.

The couple of times a year you and your husband are actually intimate are never disappointing, but never something you particularly care for either. Long ago you’d wondered if there was something wrong with you, with your lack of desire for him, but thinking about it made your mind go to scenarios where you were alone, so you’d stopped wondering. And besides, Non is giving and dedicated, so you don’t mind it when he comes to you. You just rarely go to him, that’s all.

Either way, he reached for you last night, kissed your forehead once he was done, so you guess he’s made his peace with you being gone.

(Even if he hasn’t, he’s decided to act like he has, which is more or less the same to you).

“Alex should be done with rehearsal in no time.” The woman guiding you, who’d introduced herself as Lucy, smiles as you enter a room, pointing to a dark purple sofa. “She said to make yourself at home.”

“Thank you.”

Lucy nods once, checking the clipboard in her hands, probably going through her boss’ schedule for the hundredth time.

Choosing to sit down by a small desk instead, you push some snack foods slightly aside to set your notebook on the surface. The black cover has a muted shine under the fluorescent light of the dressing room, the delicate golden grooves reflecting softly and you will never admit it freely, but buying a notebook for a new project is, for you, one of the most exciting parts.

You’d already done all the preliminary preparations, noting down your name, the date and some basic questions to get through the day. Now it’s just a matter of beginning.

You go over each line as you wait, not inclined to break the silence that has settled over the small space.

“Have you ever travelled like this before?” Lucy asks from her spot in the corner, counting some merchandise, apparently not having the same appreciation for the quiet as you do.

“No, not really.”

“It’s super fun at the beginning, but it can get… boring, honestly.” She sighs, kneeling as she places and arranges a stack of tour books on the center table in front of the sofa. “I actually think it’ll do Alex some good, to have new things to talk about every day.”

“Any high demanding routine must get tiresome, I suppose. No matter how glamorous.” You look around the room more thoroughly, taking in the vanity overflowing with makeup, the rows of shoes in the corner, placed under racks of costumes.

“You have no idea.” Lucy mumbles, standing up and checking her clipboard once more.

There’s a brief moment of white noise as a walkie-talkie clipped to the woman's back pocket comes alive.

“Hey, Luce, you there?” Alex’s voice sounds from the device.

“Yeah, what do you need?” She puts it to her mouth.

“We’re almost done here, but could you check if we packed the Hummingbird? The Dove’s patterns are just too faded for the spotlights.”

“Yeah, just give me a sec.” Going over to some guitar cases leaned on a wall, Lucy seems to check the labels stuck to their sides. “Yep, Hummingbird’s here. Want me to bring it over?” She says into the walkie-talkie.

“Awesome. Yes, please.”

Alex sounds tired.

Ten minutes later, they return, followed by yet another new face. Dressed in cuffed grey sweatpants, a fitted white t-shirt, and with her hair in a low, messy bun, Alex looks more casual than you’ve ever seen her. She’s distracted by some instructions she’s giving the newcomer, walking directly to her clothing rack to look for something.

“It’s still too tight on the shoulders, so I think we’ll need to turn them into straps after all. Do you think Wardrobe can get it done on time?” Alex asks the man, handing him a hanger with some kind of dark green jumpsuit.

“They’ll have to, won’t they?” The man smirks, taking the piece of clothing and turning to go.

“Thanks, Winn.” Alex sighs, relieved, as she rests her hands on her hips.

“Yeah, yeah.” He nods, already leaving the room.

“Best designer ever.” She calls after him.

“Say that on the record, please.” He pokes his head back through the door before disappearing.

Turning to you, Alex smiles.

“Astra, hey.”

“Good afternoon.”

“I’m sorry for making you wait. Launch days are always a bit chaotic.”

“No problem, I understand. And besides, this almost makes us even.”

“Yeah.” She chuckles, sitting on the sofa. “I guess it does.”

“Gotta finish signing these before 5 PM, Al.” Lucy interrupts softly, handing the singer some sharpies and pointing to the tour books.

“Do you mind?” Alex looks at you. Shaking your head, you adjust your chair to face her.

Her skin glows, no signs of the tiredness so profoundly etched in her voice, her eyebrows perfectly shaped. The look of someone who works in the industry is undeniable, you guess, even when dressed down.

“So, how do we begin?” She asks, wasting no time in doing just so with her own task.

“I thought we could do something light. Talking about Midvale, perhaps?”

“Sure.” Alex nods, glimpsing your way as she passes the third signed book to her assistant.

“You grew up on a farm with your family, correct?”

“Yep.”

“How was that like?”

“Oh, God.” She laughs lightly. “Messy. And weird. But really nice, to be honest. It wasn’t a really big farm and we didn’t actually harvest anything. We had some gardens for vegetables and stuff, and a handful of chickens, which hated me, but it was simple, you know?”

“Why did they hate you?” You smirk at the idea of a flock running after a teenaged Alex.

“I was in charge of collecting the eggs.” She shrugs with a grin, finishing the first stack and waiting for Lucy to grab the next. “But anyways, we were there mainly for my parents’ studies. They’re genetic engineers and they researched the effects of transgenic crops on different levels, so that was the main reason for the farm.”

“Did you ever become interested in that?”

“A little, yeah.” Alex nods, frowning down at a signature she messes up. “When I was twelve or something. I still find it kind of amazing.”

“And your mother still works in the same field?”

“On and off. She’s semi-retired now.”

You jot down a few key points in your book, feeling as her eyes lay on you for a bit longer before returning to her work.

“Was there ever a downside of living on a farm?”

There’s a fraction of hesitation before she scribbles her name on the page. You know the answer is affirmative before she even nods again.

“It got… lonely, at times. Before Kara came along, that is. My parents loved their jobs, which is something I’ve always admired, but they were in the lab for most of the day almost every day, so I was by myself a lot.” She stops, rolling her wrist a couple of times before picking up her pace. “That’s how I got into music, actually. I had this fascination with our attic, because of the rainbows the glass from the window made when the sun came in, so I was up there a lot. One day, I found my dad’s old Gibson Dove and just… it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever held.” Alex smiles at the memory and you note the name of the guitar.

(You notice how she bites the inside of her lip and her eyes crinkle slightly).

“I remember racing down the stairs with it in hand and just running to my parents’ lab. I think it was the first time I ever went in there without knocking. I begged my dad to teach me how to play, but I was kinda breathless from running across the farm, so he didn’t understand me at first.”

You three share a chuckle. You remember a picture you’d seen online during your research. A seven-year-old Alex smiling at the camera, two front teeth missing and light brown hair in a bowl cut with bangs. Your brain fills the story with this image, and it’s easy to see the scene playing out.

“When he finally got it, he said we would talk about it later, then told me to put the guitar back and go do some homework. He was always telling us to do some homework. ‘School is always first’, he’d say.” Alex rolls her eyes fondly, finishing another stack. “Anyway, after dinner that day, he came into my room with the guitar case, sat me down and gave me my very first lesson on the basics of music.”

You nod slowly, buying yourself some time as you finish writing, fingers of your free hand playing with the pendant on your necklace.

“And did that help with the loneliness?”

She frowns at you, caught off guard for a moment. She muses over the question for a few tour books before finally replying.

“It didn’t make me feel less alone, not completely. But I guess it made me come to terms with it, made me appreciate it more, you know?” Alex leans back against the couch, stretching her spine, thinking. “It forced me to quiet down, focus on what I was doing, not what was going on in my head or what I wanted to say or anything else that was happening, at least while I was learning to play. It made me  _ feel _ the instrument and  _ hear _ the notes and after a while, it was almost as if that was all there was. I wasn’t in a huge, empty place all by myself anymore.” Alex continues.

“You created your own small world.” You offer.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She hums, eyes meeting yours, a spark shining in full force before hiding away.

Alex goes on about the  house itself , describing the pale  red of the brickwalls and soft white wood making the windows and doors. Her face takes on a far off expression as she remarks on special little corners, like the outside wall almost entirely covered by a row of roses, or the faulty half-door where she caught her finger when she was five and still carries the scar. She seems nostalgic for the pinewood flooring and the creaky stairs.

“Kara and I would sleep on the porch during the summer, under these net-tents that didn’t  _ really _ work.” She laughs, clicking her sharpie closed, stacks mounting up to probably a hundred tour books sitting neatly by her side. Lucy steps out of the room to get someone to collect them. “But if my sister loves carbs, I think she loves outer space even more. She taught me almost all constellations visible through binoculars, and then, when our parents gave her a telescope for her birthday, everything she could see through that too.”

“It sounds lovely.” You nod, desperately trying to focus on anything, on the shape of the pendant still in between your fingers, its faded engraving sharp to your touch; on the soft locks that’d come free from her hair tie; on the slight pinch of the belt you wear against your skin. Anything besides the intruding memories of your own sister.

Lucy comes back, followed by two men you haven’t met. You have the sneaking suspicion it will take you a while to get familiarized with the entire staff.

“All right, an hour break and then you have to eat so hair and makeup can come in. Do you need anything for now?” Lucy informs her, stopping with a hand on the doorknob as the men step out.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Okay, I have the talkie on me.”

“Thanks, Luce.”

The woman closes the door behind herself, leaving you two alone.

“Our time is almost up.” You check your watch, 4:58 PM.

“Well, I haven’t asked you my question of the day yet.” Alex leans heavily against the couch, posture relaxed, though her leg had started bouncing as soon as Lucy had mentioned the timeline. 

“Oh, so you were serious about that?”

“Of course! You’ll learn that it’s pretty easy to know when I’m not serious.” She smirks.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

If you have to go through it, at least you can get it over with. You just hope her sense of decorum extends into her questions.

“Uhm…. Let’s see….” She squints slightly, giving you a once-over, and suddenly, your high waisted jeans and black sweater are entirely too revealing.

You’re not used to this, having an intense restlessness being set off within you by a stranger. You despise it, honestly. You observe, you learn, you analyze others, not the opposite.

Brown eyes seem to settle on your hand for a second longer than anywhere else before she returns your gaze.

“How did you meet your husband?” Alex finally asks, voice calm. She places an elbow on the back of the sofa, leaning her cheek against her rested palm.

You will ask her worse, you know. So it is nothing but fierce self-preservation that sends an alarm off in your brain,  _ too personal _ bouncing around in red, bold letters.

“Is that too much?” She muses when you take a beat too many to reply.

“No, uhm… not at all.” You say, because you two are alone and there is no way for her to know the implications of the moment she’s asking about unless you tell her. You can weave your own story with the right amount of information. You’re a good writer, you remind yourself. So you answer her.

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

_ Your parents will ground you if they find out about this, there is little doubt over that. And with the same certainty you know that, you know it will be more to do with bringing your sister with you than with doing anything prohibited per se. _

_ Soft, perfect Alura. _

_ “You’re the oldest,” they would say, “you must protect her,” they would yell. _

_ The fact you’re only older by a couple of minutes doesn’t seem to matter any longer, hasn't for some years now. _

_ Still, your sister had tenderly pushed your shoulder. “I’m coming with you, this time”, she’d said, and you had had enough tears clouding your vision that you’d agreed. _

_ So now you both sit on the corner of an empty, abandoned indoor pool, passing a cigarette between yourselves as a handful of other kids chat some feet away at the base of the structure. _

_ You should all be in school, Alura specially, being the prodigy and all, but every one of you is too tired with one thing or another to actually bother with that. _

_ In the group closest to you, Sandy animatedly talks with a couple of boys, her eyes finding yours now and again. _

_ She's wearing the red bomber jacket you hate, a miniskirt on top of leggings and heavy combat boots. You know for a fact that, beneath that cardinal monstrosity, she has a Duran Duran shirt on. _

_ Had you been alone and had you not fought, she’d be by your feet already, fingers around both your calves as you softly moved your legs. She’d be smiling up at you, laughingly saying some flirty nonsense, trying to convince you to come down. You never did, the two of you finding your way to the empty bathrooms at some point, soft kisses and wandering hands being exchanged with breathless chuckles. _

_ But you’re not alone and Sandy is moving away in a couple of days, so there are no more touches to be had besides the light brush of fingers with Alura’s as you take the last of the cigarette back. _

_ “Aren’t you guys even going to say goodbye?” Alura asks, waving as Zor-El and a couple other people appear through the back door. He waves in return, but stays with the group of friends he meets on the other side of the pool. _

_ “What for? It’s not like we were an item, Alura.” _

_ “It’s not like you were nothing, either.” She leans forward slightly, pointing the toes of her yellow converse sneakers towards the distant tiles at the bottom. “And I can probably persuade Mother and Father if you want to go out later. Although why you two wouldn’t just settle things now is beyond me.” _

_ You hold back the grumble low in your throat, begging to make its way out. _

It is beyond you,  _ you want to snap. _

_ Perfect Alura. Nothing she ever does, nothing she can ever intrinsically be will alter your parents' vision of her. The same has never applied to you. _

_ This feeling, this anger, hot and all-consuming that generally appears with the grumble, scares you. _

_ “Isn’t it amazing? The fact that they would overlook all the fighting from this morning if you just said the words?” Your chuckle is acid, but Alura knows you enough to not mind. Finishing the cigarette, you put out the butt before tossing it in the empty box and placing the whole thing back inside the pocket of your jean jacket. _

_ “You know Father fumes over these clean-energy groups. It’s like you were trying to anger him by bringing up the subject.” _

_ “But I didn’t bring it up, did I?” You sigh, leaning back on your elbows and gazing up at the stained ceiling. “He was the one going off on outdated and plainly wrong economic views.” _

_ “Yes, he was wrong, like he usually is, Astra, but we always ignore it. I do not know why you had to try and defy him this time.” _

_ “I wasn’t trying to defy him, I was just trying to share my views.” _

_ (You were just trying to share yourself.) _

_ “Father isn’t interested in our views, sister. I doubt he will ever be.” _

_ You look at Alura then, her tone small and far away. _

_ This is what the flashes of anger momentarily erase from your mind: she’s as lost as you are, stuck in the archetype your parents created of both of you. _

_ “Heads-up.” She whispers, eyes straight ahead. _

_ Bringing yourself back to a sitting position, you see Sandy and the two boys she’d been talking to walking towards you. Your hand closes in a fist inside your pocket. _

_ “Hey.” She smiles up at you two, focusing more on Alura. Predictable. _

_ “Hi, Sandy.” Your sister returns in kind. _

_ “These are Kezom and Non, they’re new in town.” Sandy points first to a boy with dark skin and a strong jaw, black curls in an afro and lime green overcoat bright against his skin tone, making his eyes pop. He’s gorgeous, you note. So does your sister, you’re sure. The second boy is smaller, light brown hair in a buzz cut and dressed entirely in muted greys. _

_ “Hi, guys.” Alura, always the sociable one, smiles wider. “Welcome to Argo City.” _

_ You nod your head in acknowledgement. Non smirks. _

_ “They’re actually replacing me at the video store, so I thought I should introduce them to our best customers.” _

_ “Have you told them about Disney days yet, then?” Alura tilts her head, arching her brow playfully. Sandy smiles, tugging at your heart. _

_ “Why don’t you do the honors?” Sandy encourages, meeting your eyes briefly. _

_ “All right.” Your sister nods, rubbing her hands together to get rid of the chill. The two of you have always had cold hands. “On the last Friday of every month, we rent out four tapes, all Disney. Sandy usually tries to hold back the release of the month for us on those days.” _

_ “And what does she get in return?” Non asks. _

_ “Free tickets to the arcade.” You inform plainly. _

_ “She works there.” Sandy provides and they all look at you, making you shift and stare at your lap. _

_ “Do you think we can keep that up?” Alura tries with her sweetest smile. _

_ “Definitely.” Kezom replies, smile matching. _

_ “Where are you guys from?” Your sister asks and that’s where they lose your interest. You pretend to pay attention, but steal glimpses at Sandy instead, probably the last time you’ll see her from this angle. _

_ Somehow, someway, the conversation shifts, Non extracting himself as Alura half flirts, half interviews the other boy, Sandy apparently happy to stand on the sidelines. _

_ “Can I sit there?” Non points to the space by your other side. _

_ You nod. _

_ Instead of walking the couple of feet towards the stairs, he puts a pack of Marlboros beside you before placing his hands firmly on the edge and pulling himself up. You’re midway through the length of the pool, so it’s not as tall as for it to be an impossible deed, but enough to demand a sizable amount of strength. _

_ He gracelessly plops down by your side, adjusting his jacket and picking up his pack. _

_ “Want one?” He offers. You nod and there’s a second of silence as he lights both cigarettes. _

_ You take a deep breath, the nicotine working its way through your system. You don’t necessarily like it, but it is something to do. _

_ Releasing the smoke, you and Sandy exchange yet another look. Differently from other times today, however, now you see  _ her _. Not the anger, the hurt or the likable façade she is so good at putting on. It’s just her, one last time. Your heart aches before anger flashes again. _

_ “I like your hair.” He says, pointing at the white strand by your left cheek. _

_ You laugh, exhaling the last bit of smoke. Breaking away from her gaze, you turn to Non to see a sheepish grin around his Marlboro. Up close, you notice a fire in his eyes that isn’t completely bad. _

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

If you were acutely aware of the buzz going around the team during the day, the excitement from the crowd is undeniable.

Four people pour over Alex at once, one checking her earpiece, microphone and guitar, another touching up her makeup, a third her hair and, finally, a fourth adjusting her costume.

Through it all, she stares ahead, face neutral.

In the dim light backstage, you can faintly see the silver specks woven into the fabric of her open-back dress, the soft fabric adjusted to her chest and loosely falling mid-calf, deep burgundy contrasting with her skin.

She fidgets, slightly moving her feet back and forth, heels' straps tightly wrapped to her ankles.

“Two minutes, everyone. Two minutes.” The stage manager whispers, walking by. Alex reaches out her free hand to squeeze his briefly, as he doesn't slow down his stroll, warning the next group of people some meters away.

The crowd begins to chant her name, impatient for the concert to begin, and Alex takes a deep breath with the shouting. She adjusts the microphone in her hand, silver nails almost white against the black handle.

“All set.” The makeup artist says, all four people stepping away.

The tiredness you’d noticed in Alex had somehow disappeared through her phases of getting ready, going away completely once her family had arrived, almost as if compartmentalized, put away to be dealt with later.

She’d been more than glad to let you hang around with them before the show, her mother kind, but distant, and Kara shaking your hand enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry, but I just have to say it: I think your name is  _ so  _ pretty.” She’d whispered when her mother and Alex had been lost in conversation. “You must get this all the time.”

“I don’t, but thank you.”

“It literally means ‘of the stars’, how can it not be amazing?” Kara had smiled wide, motioning with her hands.

Now, you watch in wonder as Alex sets herself to enter the stage.

She straightens her shoulders, back muscle movements visible because of the dress. Alex leans her head backwards, eyelined eyes closed as she faces the ceiling for a few seconds. You can’t tell whether she’s praying or tuning into the sounds around her.

_ Ok, _ you watch her mouth upwards before looking forward again.

Her sister steps closer to her quickly and they whisper a few words together.

The band members begin to take their places in front of the crowd and the clamouring gets louder.

Alex smiles.

Unconstrained, honest, bright.

The band begins to play.

Someone pulls over the black curtain, the stage light drastically cutting into where you all wait, and Alex steps forward.

You don’t understand precisely why, will have to find the meaning at some point because of the book, but you get chills when the curtain falls back down, blocking your view and the cheering on the other side gets impossibly higher.


	4. four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here's a quick breakdown of a couple of things to make everything easier:  
> 1) In this 'verse, Krypton is actually a country! I imagine it as an European country close to Germany.  
> 2) As you may have noticed in the emails, this story actually takes place in the early 2000s and the characters have different ages than what is shown in the series: Astra and Non are 35; Alex, Lucy and James are 31; Kara and Vasquez are 30 and Cat is 42.  
> You don't _really_ need these details to understand the story, but I just thought it would be nice to share. Anyway, onward!

Following the concert through small monitors backstage is not precisely ideal when you think about enjoyment, not when taking into account the fact that you were offered a place in the VIP section right in front of the stage, but it is the most practical place to both watch what’s happening and catch the rush between acts.

Alex does a total of four quick changes in the space of two hours and even your own heartbeat picks up pace at the franzy to be ready at exactly the right moment. There’s a quiet sort of seriousness, even with the music blasting loudly through the speakers.

You have always respected the entertainment business, seeing the talent needed for all the arts. However, it had never quite dawned on you that this, the fancy clothing and the lighting and the crowds of fans is, at its basics, a job. People have things to do in certain amounts of time and in specific ways to reach a common goal. All the magic masks one of the simplest of human interactions.

It is eye-opening, to say the least.

Lucy waits by your side during the down times, always walking closer to the entrance of the stage when Alex has to change, water bottle in hand, ready to help the singer with whatever comes next, but otherwise, she sits in a chair by your side.

At a certain point, as Alex begins a song you’ve never heard before, but one that makes the public cheer, Lucy hums.

“What?” You ask, already three pages into your notations over the concert.

“This never gets old.” She says, pointing to the screen as the camera cuts to the crowd, singing along at the top of their lungs.

“What’s the name of this song?”

“Uhm, _Some Other Time._ ” 

The fast tempo foolishly makes you believe it is a celebratory tune. When your ears pick up on the lyrics, though, you know it is not. The monitors show Alex again, eyes going over the sea of people in front of her and both hands clutching the microphone stand. She sings the words with intention, an edge that had been more subdued taking full force in her voice and body language.

You look and you listen, stunned.

It is a job, you recognize it now, but it is also a feeling, it is also alive in a way, and Alex just might be its beating heart.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

_this force in my soul_

_simple, scary and bold_

_pushes against my chest_

_tells me what it knows best_

_that at my very core I am alive_

_and maybe I’ll listen to it_

_some other time_

_now, now I just gotta survive_

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

“How was it?” Cat inquires.

Laying flat on your floor with the phone’s base balanced on your stomach, you’re still trying to get used to how silent it is without a full band playing through amplifiers.

“Good, surprisingly. It gave me a lot of material to work with already.”

“I doubt you wouldn’t have a lot of material even if it hadn’t gone well.”

“Yes, and aren’t you a lucky editor for that?”

Cat chuckles, cutting into your silent apartment and the low buzzing in your ears. Non had already been asleep by the time you’d gotten home.

“So you’re comfortable? They’re treating you well?”

“Did you expect them not to?” You place an arm under your head, closing your eyes. It’s been a long day and you’re supposed to be at the meeting point tomorrow at 7AM.

“No, of course not.” She sounds almost offended, an edge to her tone you’ve barely heard before. “But we can never be too careful, can we?”

You resist the urge to sigh. The whole ordeal with Max had been infuriating, damaging and, despite your reluctance to admit it, traumatic. Reading about your family, the _protest_ , your _arrest_ , had been suffocating. Through it all, Cat had been by your side, trying to hold you up as best as her socially awkward personality allowed her. To you, it has always been clear to see how she blamed herself for not being able to keep her promise, to protect you and to protect her brand from Maxwell Lord’s backlash.

“Cat, you know I wouldn’t have taken this project if I didn’t trust your judgement, right?”

“Yes, obviously. You have no reason to doubt that.” She snaps, sounding angry to anyone who doesn’t know better. Thankfully, you do know better. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re a good editor and a good friend for making me accept this, that is all. I think it will be entertaining, even if I still have my reservations about it.”

“Well, as elated as I am that you’re more confident in your job, it’s late.” Your friend rushes, trying to escape your candor. “Have a good trip, Astra. Do _not_ forget to check in.”

“Okay, _Catherine_.”

“Fuck you.” Cat groans at the use of her birth name.

“Good night.”

“Good night.” She sighs. “And hey.” She calls before you hang up.

“What is it?”

“I’m serious. Let me know how you’re doing, I would rather not have to guess whether you’re dead or not.”

“I’ll think about it.” You deadpan, smile inching its way onto your lips.

“Son of a-”

You place the handset back on its base.

As exasperating as your friendship often is, knowing someone cares makes everything feel a bit more secure. If it all goes to hell, you’ll have a safe place to come back to.

(Your husband cares, you know. He cares about your safety and stability, you just simply do not feel it, but it is far too late and you have far too much to do to ponder on that.)

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

The bus drive to the next city takes three hours, which you intend on making the most of by interviewing people. The entire band and essential crew had been warned about your presence, the great majority introducing themselves at some point on the previous day. The ones who hadn’t for some reason do it as they climb into the bus.

You are not surprised, precisely, when you see Alex appearing as well. You had assumed she would catch a flight to the city instead, that’s all.

She shows up here, regardless, with big sunglasses on, hair in a ponytail and travel mug in a tight clutch. Lucy is right behind her and, when the singer stops by the seat right behind the driver’s, the assistant keeps moving on, greeting everyone (including you) as she goes.

“Hey, Jake? Is everyone in?”

Jake, the tour manager, nods, waving a clipboard which holds a call sheet with everyone's names. He’s the same man who’d spent ten minutes telling you about the importance of being on time for ‘ _bus call’_ yesterday and the only person who’d been here today when you’d arrived, thirty minutes early.

“All right, then.” Alex smiles. She pushes her shades to the top of her head, leaning a knee on her seat while still standing. The conversation dies down, all apparently used to this routine. “Listen, most of us have been doing this together for a very long time and I already said everything last night before we went in, so I’m not gonna take long.”

The driver hops in, shaking Alex’s free hand before taking his place, turning the vehicle on, closing the doors and moving into traffic.

“I think we can all agree yesterday was an incredible first gig. People are legitimately excited for this tour and for this music, which is a relief for all of us, I imagine. We know the work that goes into making last night and the next however many months possible, so I just wanna thank you all for being willing to go on yet another _circus_ with me. It's not gonna be easy, 'cause it never is, but having this family together again makes it a lot damn easier.”

“Family doesn’t steal each other’s snacks, though.” James, the drummer, exclaims from the back, pushing the shoulder of the guitarist sitting by his side.

“God damn it, James, it’s been two years, are you still on that?” Alex snickers, shaking her head, enticing a few agreeing comments.

“I just wanna make it clear from the get-go that if it happens again, someone’s gonna wake up without their guitar picks.”

The group chuckles.

“Well, since the moment was ruined, let’s get into tour bus etiquette for the newbies and for people who, for some reason, always forget them.” She taps her seat’s armrest and everyone groans around you, some with humour, some going back to their previous conversations. “To start off, keep your shit inside your bunks. I would like to not spend this tour tripping on your smelly shoes.”

“And speaking of shit, no dumps on the bus.” Vasquez, the bassist, speaks over the voices. Despite being utterly confused, you do take note of it all.

“No dumps on the bus!” Most people reinforce.

“And for fuck's sake, no cooking in the middle of the night! Especially if you tend to burn your food.” Lucy shouts from somewhere behind you.

“It’s been two years, Luce, are you still on that?” James replies in the same tone that was used against him and you smirk.

They go off after that, citing one thing or another, and you try to pay attention to whatever is thrown to everyone, ignoring comments in private conversations you happen to hear.

The atmosphere is relaxed and excited, old friends coming together and waiting to arrive somewhere. In the back of your mind, it reminds you of a school trip.

“Are you always that good at disappearing?” Someone asks, forcing you to look up from the paper you’re scribbling on. You find kind brown eyes staring back at you.

“How do you mean?”

“I tried looking for you yesterday after the show and you were nowhere to be found.”

“I wanted to beat the traffic caused by _your_ fans.”

“Fair enough.” Alex nods. “So?”

She looks at you expectantly, eyebrows going up in question.

“What?”

“What did you think?” Alex rolls her eyes.

“About the concert?”

“Of course.”

“It was fantastic.” It falls from your lips without a second thought. It’d been at least eight years since your last concert and, if judging by how much you genuinely liked last night’s, it will take a lot to make you interested in going to anyone else’s. “The production was phenomenal, and so were the songs, of course. I really enjoyed the arrangement you did with _First Move,_ by the way.”

Alex smiles wide, just as wide as she had done before taking the stage, something shifting behind her posture, something positive, maybe.

You wonder why your approval matters.

She thanks you, however, and offers to show you around the bus, so you agree and don’t get a chance to ask. Yet another query you’ll have to solve.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

“All right, high school. How was it?” This time, you sit on the sofa. The furniture, you’ve found out, also travels with the group, which means everything is exactly the same as it was on the day before, the room only a bit smaller.

Alex chuckles, doesn’t shift from where she stands in front of a mirror, a seamstress kneeling by her side, adjusting something at the hem of her tailored black pants.

“It was fun, actually. I really liked it.”

“Were you a good student?”

“Lucy, don’t even.” Alex warns her smirking assistant.

“Oh, please do.” You turn to the smaller woman who’d entered the room with a plate in her hands in time to hear your last question.

“You know how people call her Miss Precision?” Lucy begins, setting the center table. You nod.

“Unbelievable.” Alex sighs.

“That did not start when she became famous or whatever. She got straight A’s in everything all the time and God forbid she did _anything_ wrong. I think it was our Physics teacher who called her that for the first time.”

She turns to Alex for confirmation and the woman throws a grumped _yep_ over her shoulder on her way to the small bathroom in the room.

“So you went to school together?”

“Only junior and senior year.” Alex calls from behind the door, probably changing back into her normal clothing. It is something you’ll have to grow used to, you guess, this fluidity with space and states of undress. “‘cause that’s when she transferred in.”

“I’m an army brat.” Lucy offers as a way of explanation. “But anyway, Danvers was kind of the star of our class. Academically, that is.”

“My Science teacher almost cried when I told him I was going to college for music.” A smirking Alex, now in her sweatpants, hands the garment she’d just removed to the seamstress, thanking her before the woman leaves.

“Poor Mr. Clark.” Lucy chuckles. “But then again, you did consider Biology at some point.”

“Yeah, for like two months when I was barely fifteen and right after getting rejected by that label. The fact that he held on to that for three years says more about him than me.”

She sits in front of the table, facing you, and pulls the plate Lucy had brought towards her.

“And how were things besides the classes? Any extracurriculars?”

“Oh God, yeah.” She smirks, uncovering her dish. “Let’s see… AV club, Basketball, Science club, Assisted Living Volunteer…”

“Nothing related to music, though?”

Alex finishes chewing before replying.

“I helped out the school band a couple of times, but I don’t know, music was just too personal for me to hand all the decisions to someone else.”

“Your virgo moon’s showing, babe.” Lucy comments, making Alex roll her eyes. You don’t necessarily understand what that means, so you remain quiet.

“But that’s how I met James, so I guess it was worth it. He used to play for the school and stayed behind to run through some songs with me. We became good friends kind of instantly, though he and Kara did become closer.”

“So you’ve been playing together for what, fifteen years now?” You question.

“Yeah… _Wow_.” She frowns slightly. “I actually never thought about that.”

“We’ve kind of known each other half of our lives, Al.” Lucy says and the friends exchange a look. “Hey, didn’t you volunteer at an animal shelter with that douchebag for a while too?” She asks, going over to rearrange some shoes.

Alex gazes down at her food, chews more slowly this time. "Vicki, yeah."

“Vicki?” You shift in your seat, analyzing her. Shoulders straight, breathing calm and controlled. It’s her tell, you realize, remembering the contract meeting and the moment at Noonan’s when you had mentioned her father. She’s uncomfortable.

“She was a close friend during Junior High and for half of high school as well.”

“Did something happen?”

“Uhm… we had a falling out and she moved away a while after.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why she moved away or why we stopped talking?” Alex turns back to you, amusement in her eyes, but her shoulders still straight.

“Well, I am not trying to learn more about her, am I?”

That warrants you two snickers.

“It was usual teenager stuff, really. We just… became different people as we grew up and ended up growing apart.”

“She was kind of an asshole, though.” Lucy mumbles.

“Not always. You met her after, but she used to be really cool.”

“I don’t know how nice someone who gets Sunny K to snap really is.”

You don’t have to ask, only tilting your head momentarily.

“Kara.” Alex clarifies. “Vicki and I had a big argument in the hall this one time and Kara… was not happy at what she said, so she kind of…”

“Punched her.” Lucy laughs.

“Mom did not think it was funny, though. Kara was grounded for a month.”

“I always think it’s a bit funny when bigots are forced to shut up.” The assistant shrugs.

“Yeah, well… Kara was always a bit too protective.” Alex sighs, taking another bite from her food.

“Have you guys ever spoken since?” You force yourself to ask. There’s something more behind this, something big, because the woman is still uncomfortable.

“A few times in college, though only in passing.”

“Didn’t she come to a gig a couple of tours ago?” Lucy mentions, going to answer a knock on the dressing room’s door.

“Yeah, with her husband, no less.” Alex takes a forkful of her food, seeming to slip into her own thoughts.

“Soundcheck.” Jake, standing in the hallway, informs when he comes into view.

“It’s two thirty already?” Lucy checks her watch, rushing back to Alex, who’s already beginning to stand, a _fuck_ mumbled under her breath.

“Do you want me to tell the guys to get started so you can finish here?” He offers, walkie-talkie in hand.

“No, it’s fine.” Alex sighs, still chewing and going over to pick up her guitar case. “We can finish this later, right?” She turns to you.

“Uhm, yes, absolutely.”

“Awesome.” She leaves, lunch not even half-finished.

Under ‘tour aspects’, you underline ‘time crunch’.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

For people who theoretically were supposed to be living the _rock’n’roll_ life-style, everyone is in their bunks by half past midnight, which, frankly, suits you perfectly.

The bus is a double decker, with the sleeping area, a bathroom and a fancier lounge upstairs and the first floor being reserved for a small kitchen, another bathroom and a simpler living room space where you'd gathered at the beginning of the trip.

You sit in the kitchen booth, laptop in place, papers spread over the table, photos you’d taken of the stage and a few other moments with a polaroid camera popping up here and there.

This is quite honestly your favorite part. Sitting down with your notes, reviewing everything, new information connecting with the first things you’d learned and morphing into a meaningful sequence of words.

It’s a solitary practice, but one you dive into headfirst.

It had been daunting, to press that first letter, part of you had been scared you wouldn't be able to find your flow once again, but coming back to your passion had been like turning on a switch. It’d happened instantaneously.

You are so involved in it, a particular metaphor springing into a whole page, that you don’t hear the steps on the stairs.

“You still up, uh?” She doesn’t stop by the booth, walking straight towards the food area.

“Oh, hello.” You slowly pull back from the screen, eyes adjusting to the dimmer lights around you and to Alex, no longer only described by the words on your screens, but now getting something from the minifridge. “Is the typing making too much noise?”

She shakes her head while taking a sip from the bottle she’d just opened.

“We can’t even hear it from the back.” This time she approaches you.

“I produce better at night, but I suppose I could find another time, if this isn't appropriate.” You look at her for a moment, seeing that she too doesn’t look sleepy, before moving your papers aside, clearing a spot for her on the other side of the table.

“Nah, it's fine, I produce better at night too.” Alex sighs, sliding into the seat and sipping her drink again. Up close, you can see it’s a bottle of chocolate milk. You try to hide your smirk as you organize your things. “What? It’s good.”

“Do you drink it warm before bed too?” You can’t help yourself.

“Ha ha.” She mocks. “It’s one of the few things I can still enjoy while on tour, so if you think I’m ashamed…”

“No shame necessary.”

“Good.” Alex nods, taking yet another drink.

“But what do you mean with ‘still enjoy’? Do you go on a diet for the tours?” As you can't help the slight poke, you also can't help the interviewer in you from jumping into attention.

“Not really, I don’t do those. But I try not to fluctuate too much when I’m touring because of the costumes.”

“That makes sense.”

She picks up one of the pictures you’d taken of an overlook of her dressing room.

“God, Luce’s organized.” She chuckles, handing the photo back.

“Yes." You look at the picture for a second as well before placing it on the pile. "She is also very nice.”

“She is, isn’t she? Working with friends is not always ideal, but it can be really worth it.”

You smile, making a mental note to call your editor tomorrow.

“Who else is supposed to push us forward, right?”

“Yeah… Do you have anyone like that?” Alex asks. You’re beginning to ponder whether she’s just too bold or you’re simply not used to people being curious.

“Cat.” You shrug, saving the file you’d been working on. “Though we did meet on the job.”

“That can be nice as well.”

“It can. We would probably not get along, had we met in any other setting. I think we would have hated each other in high school, for instance.”

“Why?” She frowns slightly, amused.

“We are very different people.” You say, a clear memory of Cat in a bright red dress and full face of makeup and you in jeans and a tan cardigan on your first book launch. “In most aspects we usually have opposite reactions, but we’ve always gotten along quite nicely when it came to work related things.”

“You two did seem very comfortable.”

“After working together for ten years, that’s somewhat unavoidable, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Alex nods. There's a pause and you watch as a mischievous glint grows in her eyes.

“Now I’m curious as to how you were like in high school.” She smiles.

You shake your head but begrudgingly match her expression.

“Not great.” Is all you say.

“Come on, tell me. You know how I got that stupid nickname."

You must give out an uncertain aura, because she changes tactics.

"Something simpler, then. What was your favorite subject?"

You sit back, closing your laptop. Something about the quietness of the moment makes you sigh, give a curt nod.

“Geography.”

“Really? Not English or, uhm, Kryptonian, I guess?” She chuckles awkwardly.

“Kryptonian Literature, yes. My professor for that subject was not very good, so I was bored more often than not.” You say, chills running down your spine by the mention of the endless hours wasted listening to mindless discussions of subjects anyone with half a brain should have picked up on a first read. “Geography was more interesting, especially once we got into international relations.”

“You’re inclined to politics, then?”

“Something like that, yes. I actually used to go to protests over clean energy and sustainability laws.” The second comment escapes you without a thought and you wish not for the first time that one could swallow back words.

“What? A revolutionary?” Alex smiles, leaning forward. Here, alone, you see the spark again.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I was just… very strong-willed and not good at doing nothing.”

“I can relate to that.”

“And similarly to your Science teacher, my Geography professor was not very happy to find out I didn’t plan on following those studies as a major.”

“Their hearts are in the right place, I guess, probably only want to see us thrive on something we have talent for.”

“Yes, well, maybe in your case. Krypton works in a different way.”

“How so?” She looks straight into your eyes, searching, and you tighten your jaw, deciding whether or not to look away.

“It’s a very patriarchal society. Our parents’ desires have a big influence over what path we take. There's even a form they have to fill out for the school. My parents were always set on Alura and I going into public service. She as law enforcement and I as military.”

“Seriously?”

“They thought the army would give me more structure, maybe keep me out of harm's way.”

“Were you a rebel, Astra?” Alex inquires, smirk and spark in full blast. You breathe in, the fluorescent light giving her an artificial glow.

“What do you think?” You throw back, pinching the tip of your ring finger beneath the table.

"I think you probably still are." Her smirk turns into a smile and you feel too exposed. “So what happened?” Alex moves on, thankfully.

“For you to understand it, you must keep in mind that being as structured of a society as Krypton is, we are expected to choose our degrees and send our names for colleges as soon as we enter high school. We don't usually change those degrees, unless it is in the same field, or we risk losing our spot. Seeing as you need a degree to enlist, my professor was bound to inform my parents about my decision.”

“And how did that go?”

“Not well, really. But I knew it wouldn’t. Alura was able to appease them, at least.”

“She did what they wanted?”

“Better. She aspired to be even more.” You force yourself to hold back any bitterness that threatens to lace your voice. “She wanted to be a judge and they were so happy about it that they let my decision go. For a while, that is.”

“Parents and their impossible expectations, uh?” There's a touch of exasperation behind what she probably means as humour. You decide to ignore it. You'll speak about her parents soon enough.

“Precisely.”

Uncomfortable and unwilling to say much else, you wait, feeling a bit raw around the edges.

“Vicki was… important.” Alex sighs, following your movement with her eyes as you raise a hand to adjust your necklace, leaving it there, clutching. “The truth is that she was done with me before I ever was with her.”

It is not exactly equal, this exchange of painful teenage memories, but it is blatantly honest and maybe the same kind of heartache.

“When we stopped hanging out… It ruined school for me. It ruined everything, really. Kara was worried, that’s why she snapped, but she made everything that much worse, because before she did that, at least Vicki and I were still talking.”

Oh, the same kind of heartache indeed.

“Sisters and their way of meddling, uh?”

She exhales, a small, fractured chuckle along with it.

“Gosh, adolescence really sucks, doesn’t it?” Alex smirks again, shaking her head as if to shake off the gloom that had slowly taken over.

“Especially if it involves eighties fashion.” You try as well, these feelings sitting too heavily in the pit of your stomach.

“You know you can’t say that and not show pictures, right?”

“Luckily for me, I have none at this moment.”

“Really, you don’t have a single one in here?” Alex taps the top of your laptop.

“Really.” You pull it closer to you for good measure.

She goes back to smiling and you convince yourself you can shrug off the thoughts of your family.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

_The gusts of wind on the abandoned playground behind the hospital cut through your thick tartan sweater and black jeans._

_“My parents will never let me choose. Not now. Not after.” You lean your chin against your knees, arms tight around your legs and the rocks under you hard against your butt._

_“Were they ever going to?” Non, on the swing in front of you, doesn’t slow down his rocking._

_“I don’t know.” You say, ignoring the grip around your chest. “I don’t know what’s realistic and what’s imagination, anymore.”_

_“Let’s do imagination, then.” He states, jumping from the swing at the highest point of ascension. He falls clumsily on his feet a few meters away before rearranging himself by your side. He smells of cigarettes and cologne, a sharp scent with a soft, floral undertone._

_In the cold, he is warm enough._

_“What does that even mean?”_

_“If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”_

_You think of a notebook you and Alura filled with magazine clippings as children._

_“Anywhere?” You ask, shifting to now rest your cheek against your arm, facing him._

_“Anywhere.” He nods, taking off his coat and draping it over your shoulders._

_“Disneyland.” You say._

_Non laughs, throws his head back and laughs, cheeks flushing and contrasting with the bleakness of the winter day. You smirk genuinely for the first time in a while._

_“Okay, so we’re in Disneyland. Which rides are we going to?” He wonders, mirroring your position._

_It is that same dark part in you, where the anger comes from, which whispers in your mind that, in your perfect scenario, he’s not exactly invited._

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

_“You’re not my keeper, Alura.”_

_“And you are not stupid!” Your sister bangs the car door closed. “Do you really wish to test them this far?”_

_“I wish to do what I decide with my own life.” You turn the Fiesta on, pulling away from the hospital._

_“And you may do so in a few years. Right now is no time for you to go off the rails.”_

_“How many years am I supposed to wait exactly, sister? Until this graduation or the next? Or perhaps after I am promoted to lieutenant?”_

_“Until we no longer depend on them would be ideal.”_

_There’s this anger again. Bright and strong in a way you haven’t felt in some months._

_“Or at least until I’m dead. Shouldn’t take long now.”_

_You’re glad the street is empty, because you hit the brakes without thinking twice. Looking over at your sister, one of her hands clutches her elbow, where you know a bandage hides the exact place the last session of chemotherapy had just passed through her system, her hospital tag laying plainly around her wrist._

_You stare at her wide-eyed. She stares back, exhausted._

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Inhaling sharply, you sit up at once.

The strong bang of your head against the top of the bunk is enough to fully bring you into consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, no update next week, since life's about to get hectic, but anyways, thank you for reading and, as usual, feedback is always appreciated!


	5. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for a POV change

Ever since you started making money with this job, you’ve tried to keep a few promises to yourself, one of them being that you would not become one of _those_ rich people, the ones who buy shit they don’t need and forget about it two seconds later.

You can live comfortably, but never frivolously, that’s the deal. It is something you’ve managed to hold on to throughout the years, many of your colleagues' behaviours still seeming otherworldly to you, even to this day.

One of the rare things you indulge in, though, is the pleasure of a hotel bed. There is a very special place in your soul reserved for waking up in the softness of a Queen size bed with the knowledge that you won’t have to make it afterwards.

You’re obviously not a monster, so you don’t tear up the thing, knowing whoever has to pick up after you doesn't deserve the extra work, but there are few kinds of sleep that completely shut you off like falling into those white sheets after a gig.

Today, you manage to open your eyes a couple of minutes before the alarm, so you have time to stretch wide and slow, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes and yawning. The muscle on the shoulder you’d pulled three cities ago complains as you roll around, the medical tape tight against your skin.

Moving your hands away and looking up at the ceiling, little spots mark your vision. You allow your body to relax against the mattress, sinking into the material once more. It’s only the sound of the alarm signaling 10:00 AM that keeps you from falling asleep again.

If getting into a hotel room after a gig knocks you out, it doesn’t really fully recharge your energies.

As per usual, there’s a _pling_ from your Nokia as soon as you manage to turn off the screaming device on the nightstand. Blindly reaching by the side of the bed for your pants, you pull the small cellphone from your backpocket.

* * *

**Luce:**

Rise n shine, buttface. Car in 1 hr.

* * *

Smirking, you shoot a quick “ _K"_ back, pushing the covers away from you, and hesitating for a second before jumping up and off the bed.

You’ve learned a long time ago that there’s no use in even considering sleeping in while on tour. At least you only have two more concerts before a couple of days off.

By the time you’re done showering, the tiny coffee machine on top of the mini fridge has finished brewing a pot, which you make your way through while applying stuff to your face and gathering the few items you actually bothered bringing from the bus.

Almost as a small blessing, you’re done twenty minutes early, so you enjoy your last cup curled up on an armchair, the big windows of the room exposing the soft blue of the mid-morning sky.

It’s only been three weeks, but you already struggle a little to remember where you’ll be tomorrow. (Seattle, probably?)

In the car, Luce doesn’t really have to go through the schedule for the day with you, but she does so anyway, knowing your mind usually begins to flake at this point, especially when you have an injury.

“Earth to Alex, did you hear what I said?” She snaps her fingers.  
You jump slightly, only now noticing you’d stopped listening. “Absolutely.” Your nod is serious, but she shakes her head, reading right through your bullshit.

“I should have left you for Celine Dion when I had the chance.” Lucy mumbles, crossing some things off of her trusty planner.

“Yeah, and move to Canada, eh?”

Tim, your driver, chuckles and it’s enough to get you smirking too, completely back to reality.

“What did you just cut out, anyhow?” You ask, turning on your side, knees drawn up to rest on the leather seat.

“Couple of local music blogs. It was already too tight, anyway. You can call them and do the interviews over the phone tomorrow while we’re en route.”

“Oh, but I wanted to do those. I always talk to those guys when we come here.”

“It literally doesn’t leave you any down time between talking with Astra and having to get ready.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind it.”

“Alex…”

“Keep them on the schedule, please.” You sigh.

She knows you well, well enough that, nine times out of ten, she can predict your burnouts before anyone else. She can probably notice something now, you guess, but you’re feeling fine, if only a bit aloof this morning. It’s not a problem.

You’d played on this venue yesterday, which makes things a lot easier. Saying goodbye to Tim and stepping out of the car, you see no crew members running around in a rush, most sitting in small corners here and there instead, some playing cards, some dozing off and some reading.

You should really get back into that, you think. You probably would, if only Astra’s books hadn’t made every other book seem pale in comparison.

Speaking of the writer, you spot her briefly while walking past the cafeteria towards your dressing room. As per usual, the table in front of her is packed with papers, her notebook and her laptop. The only thing that really surprises you is to see that she isn't alone. On either side of her there’s a member of your band, James to her right and Vasquez to her left. They seem to be talking animatedly and, judging by Astra’s scribbling hand, you know what (or rather, who) the subject is.

Jealousy truly isn’t the right word for what makes you swallow. She was always supposed to talk to people around you for extra context and you honestly don’t mind. You trust your team wholeheartedly.

It’s unavoidable, though, that you feel a bit uneasy to have your friends give their opinions about you without having a clue on what those are.

(That’s not true, you've been telling yourself over and over again. Your friends like you, your friends support you and believe in you as an artist as well as a person. They may not know you completely, but they’ve been consistent enough for you to guess that they do love the parts you’ve displayed.)

“-and then one of the trucks going to Canada got pulled over at the border for some reason, but managed to make it through. It’s extra money, but we’ll be on track for Friday.” Jake’s voice fades in slowly. You’ve been blankly staring into the vanity mirror while applying hand lotion, which you realize in time to catch your tour manager and assistant exchanging a look.

“And the set in here will go on to Oakland while we’re in Canada, right?” You throw out quickly, before either of them can say anything.

“Yeah, should be all ready to go by the time we make it back.”

“Awesome. And hey, I hear you about the extra cash, but that’s Live Nation’s problem. Besides, it’s not like the ticket sales from the extra dates haven’t already covered that.” Spinning in your chair, you smile, stand up and go over to the merch you have to sign for the day.

_Time to pull it together, Alexandra._

You force yourself not to zone out again. It may not be a frivolous pleasure, but it’s still selfish, and that’s another thing you promised you wouldn’t become.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

You never really meant to make a habit out of it. You have stayed clear of fashion policing anyone for most of your life, safe for the brief period when Vicki turned nasty because of some girls and, desperate to keep her around, you gave that a try too.

In a way, you’re not _really_ policing anything. You would never dream of making any comment and, even if you did, it would only be a positive one.

Astra’s sense of style is something you find refreshing.

From the stage, her dark brown pants seem nearly black, her mustard-yellow sweater almost serving as a beacon under the lighting. You’re too short-sighted to see, but you know there’s a thin gold necklace laying between the collar of her white undershirt and the soft yellow wool.

She’s taking pictures today, organizing each polaroid on a line on the floor as it’s spilled from the camera.

You’d thought it was weird, the first time she’d asked to do it, but you’ve been recorded enough through this career to not really mind.

“It helps with details I forget to take note on.” Astra had explained, camera tightly in her hands, waiting.

Agreeing was easy. Who were you to mess with her process?

“Vasquez, James, you were, like, a beat off on that last chorus.” The musical director, positioned at the sound table, says through the speakers as you finish running through the setlist. “Alex, you were flat on the first, so let’s just do it again.”

Not for the first time, you feel like telling him to fuck off. Not for the first time, you remind yourself that he is the best for a reason.

Astra turns towards the stage, hair pulled over one shoulder and bottom lip ever so slightly pulled inwards. You breathe sharply, thankfully away from the mic. James begins to count, tapping his drumsticks and you close your eyes, trying to visualize the scales over the image just ingrained into your brain.

You hit the notes perfectly and the band is on cue.

“Why don’t we talk in here today?” You throw in her direction, walking towards the backstage curtains to set your guitar on a stand.

“Will you feel comfortable? It is quite an open space.”

“That’s why it’s perfect.” You wink, coming back towards the center. The rest of the people slowly trickle out.

Letting your feet hang, you sit on the edge of the stage.

This is a smaller venue, so it’s easy to see her even when she takes a place in the first row of chairs. When she crosses her legs, the zipper on her black boot reflects the light, almost like a beam on her foot.

Not for the first time, you wish you didn’t notice these things. Not for the first time, you admit that you notice them because she is, for lack of a better word, intriguing. Somehow strict use of the language aside, she has a mesmerizing way of carrying herself, of moving around a room as if she’s testing its veracity, testing its safety.

By noticing these small things, you’ve also noticed how she now seems more at ease in your dressing room than anywhere else, leaning back fully without thinking much. Maybe it's because that is the only place that has consistently looked the same for the past weeks.

Maybe that’s why she also adapted so well to the bus.

“Are you feeling all right?” She asks, forearms resting loosely, one on top of the other, over her knees, her eyes analyzing.

“Yeah, of course.” Lucy may know you well enough, but Astra doesn’t, so it falls from your lips easily, a trained and easy smile growing right after. You want to ask why the question, wondering if you are giving off a vibe or something.

“Okay.” She nods once, opening up her notebook and effectively ending the topic. If you’re thankful for anything, it’s for her clarity. “I think it’s about time we talk about the tour, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

“Obviously this album had a big repercussion.” She says, eyes on her notes. “Did that have an impact on the magnitude of this tour?”

“In a way, yes.” You nod, placing your fingers under your thighs. “We wanted to do something that reflected the proportion the last record took, which, honestly, is only fair, because we would never even have been able to fund a tour this size if the album hadn’t proved that people would be interested.”

“It’s also a very conceptualized tour, did that ever come into consideration when you were in the studio?”

“I wish it had, actually.” You smile easily, years and years of practice making you barely notice it. “That would indicate I’m a better planner than I really am. But no, I think the concepts came as everything was finalized and also with how big the investors allowed us to dream.”

Astra nods her head in understanding, in the way she always does when she’s thinking, when she’s taking in the information you give and somehow spinning it around in her head. You try not to be too distracted with how the curls in her hair shuffle with the movement.

“And do you like the finished result?”

Now, you smirk. It takes a fragment of a second for a bunch of mistakes you’ve made in the last weeks to pop up in your brain. No one with an untrained eye or ear would notice them, you’re well aware, but you always take them in, you always register them in that corner of your memory reserved for failures.

“I do, yeah. It’s not perfect, though. There are a couple of things here and there that could be better.”

“Like what?”

“Minor things.” Your outfits, your hair, your voice, your ability to play, your persona. “Nothing really worth mentioning. I’m just too picky, I guess.”

“You’re dedicated.” She offers, meeting your eyes.

“Maybe.” You force yourself to say, throat tight. You’re not used to compliments, not from her, anyway.

“A tour this size seems… perhaps a bit too big. Is it ever daunting?”

It makes you think of the final meeting for the dates, the list with the names of all the cities taking over three pages. It makes you think of how exhausted it had made you just by looking at it. Kara had been worried, had told you many times that it was too much, that you were spreading yourself too thin, had said it wasn’t worth it.

The dates are a lot. The work is a lot and staying away from your family is a lot. You’re not stupid. You know your limits and you’ve crossed them repeatedly, but each time you’ve done so, you just recognized that you could go farther, that you could go harder. You always survive and you always change people's lives along the way, giving them a couple of hours worth of fun.

The bigger, the better. The harder, the better. You’re not invincible, but staying still, staying in LA is not an option. The house you’d bought is too big and too empty. You’re tired today, but you’re surrounded by music and people and a clear purpose. 

“It’s a little bit daunting, but I’m used to it by now.”

“You haven’t done anything this big before, however, have you?”

“No, but I’m fortunate enough to love what I do for a living, so it’s worth it.”

Astra looks at you, her head slightly tilted. She doesn’t understand. People who aren’t in the industry usually don’t.

“Every other aspect of this job,” you continue, suddenly feeling the need to be closer to be able to explain. You jump from the stage, pushing through a row of barriers to get to where she is. “Every other obligation, like the recording process, the photoshoots, the promotional junket, even the crappy parts, like contract negotiations, having to compromise with label execs over lyrics and such… it all culminates in this.”

Sitting one chair away, it gives you enough space to face her.

“In live performances?”

“Exactly. That’s what I love, that’s the grand thing about music. I mean, getting to play good songs and actively move people you will never really know. That's the big purpose, right?”

“I had never quite thought about it like that.” She hums. Piercing through the passive look she has in these talks, curiosity appears. It makes something tug in your chest.

“So you would drop the bureaucracy, if you could?” Astra carries on, eyes still shining.

That’s the danger of spiking her curious side, you’ve come to realize. She asks poignant questions, questions she probably knows very well could get you in a lot of trouble, and you always struggle to balance the PR person who lives inside of you with the voice which just wants to scream.

“Most of it. I actually do like the photoshoots and being in the studio, though.”

“If I could be frank, I wouldn’t have guessed that, looking at you.” She starts writing something down in her notebook, calligraphy fast and small. She goes through five lines before she’s done.

“Why?” It’s your time to be curious.

“You seem… quiet and… set in your style, I guess. Whenever you’re not on stage, you simply slide by, not drawing any attention.”

“So you're saying that all popstars have to be attention seekers?” You feel your eyebrow arching up. If your sister were here, she would probably pinch you and call you a brat. You can’t help challenging her, though.

“In a way, yes.” She straightens her shoulders, taking the bait. “It is absolutely not a bad thing, but I do believe you have to have a certain amount of vanity to work in something so related to your self image.”

This, right here, is why you can’t help it. Astra is unafraid of taking you head-on, something really refreshing when working with so many people who expect to have to fold down to you.

“You’re right, I guess.” You sigh. It’s not like you haven’t come to terms with your ego long ago. It’s not like being afraid to lose this image you’ve so carefully created hasn’t cost you. “And yeah, I am quieter whenever I’m just... _myself_.”

“Is there a difference between who you are when you’re working and who you are at home?”

“Oh my God, absolutely. There’s a different me for every tour, even. There has to be.”

“How so?”

“Well, maybe not different _people,_ I guess, they are all part of me in a way, just… under different lighting and pumped up a few notches.”

“Why do you do that? Change, that is.”

“For self-preservation. Can you imagine if I walked around cracking jokes and being that obnoxious all the time?” You laugh. If Kara were here, she would say something along the lines of ‘ _you_ are _that obnoxious’_.

Astra must see the opening for that as well, because she bites her lip and looks down to her notebook.

“And also because the fans buy a ticket to escape. They want to see someone approachable, but they also want to see someone who can take them away from their problems for a while. Everything is a degree hotter than normal, a step over reality.”

“But why does this also change with each tour?”

"Well, the demands of each tour change, so I change in turn. My third tour was freer, for example, so I had to fill the stage with more personality than with projections or costumes, while this one, because it _is_ so structured, depends on me hitting my marks and letting the audience get into the songs and everything else that isn’t… me.”

Astra considers you for a second, making you hold your breath.

 _My questions will make you uncomfortable,_ she’d said.

“Do you like who you become?”

You pause.

 _No_ , you want to say. Sometimes you know you’re great. Most times you have fun, most times you’re genuinely yourself enough to connect to the moment, whatever it throws at you. Sometimes, like in ‘96, you have no idea who the fuck you even are, so you become someone you hate. You cringe every time you remember the taping of that tour, canned even before you’d finished watching it back.

“Not always.”

“Do you like who you are during this tour?”

“I think so, we’re still getting to know each other.” You smirk, trying to deflect. Truth is, you hadn’t considered it yet. Truth is, analyzing it will most likely demand an amount of energy better spent elsewhere.

(Truth is, you’re scared that the answer might be _no_.)

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

“The critics are really loving it, you know? They're super positive on all the reviews.” Your sister says, probably picking at some piece of clothing.

“What have I told you about reading those?”

“I know, I know, but I like seeing people recognizing your work.”

“Hm.” You nod, munching on your last bite of toast.

“Even that gun guy liked it…” Kara pushes through a yawn, which causes a similar reaction in you.

“Gun guy?"

"Yeah. Sniper or something."

"Do you mean Snapper?”

“I thought it was Sniper.” She mumbles, making you laugh.

“Who the hell is called Sniper, Kara?”

“I don’t know, people have weird names.” She says, chuckling as well.

“Not _Sniper_. But anyways, what did he say?”

“You told me not to tell you.”

“Only if it’s bad, now I’m curious.”

“Okay, let me find it…” She drops the phone, a clear image of her running to her bedroom showing up in your head. There’s a bit of ruffling when she comes back. “He said a bunch of technical stuff about your voice and how it sounds great and how he’s never been able to find any problems with the band and yada yada… oh, here is the best part. He said: ‘ _in a well-refined production, with thought out and perfectly executed acts, Alex Danvers shows she came to impress with a concert worthy of her latest record’_.”

You stare into the folds of the covers of the bed, chest tight.

“That’s… really good.” You don’t know why you sound so small.

“It really is, and you deserve every compliment.”

“Kiss-ass.” You deflect, voice back to normal.

“Maybe, but I really am proud of you, Al. Even if I am still worried.”

You sigh.

“You don’t have to worry. It’s working out, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, because it’s been less than a month. The tour is so great because it is so demanding. It might be too much.”

“It’s not, I promise. I’m fine.”

It’s your sister’s time to sigh.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Playing large cities is always nice; the bigger the crowd, the louder they tend to sing along to the tracks, safe for a few exceptions. Spending your days off in those cities, however, tends to be more difficult. You can never really go out without being recognized, which you don’t mind as much when you’re just going to a shop or walking down a street, but it makes sightseeing nearly impossible.

The only chance you truly have of getting out of the hotel is when you play big cities early in the week and get your days off right after. Playing on a Monday or a Tuesday usually means that most of the people who travel to watch the concert are forced to go home the very next day for work or school, decreasing the chances of you being approached. It’s not a bulletproof plan, stopping for at least a couple of autographs is unavoidable, wherever you go, but it _is_ easier.

There are even lucky days, though few and far between, when everything is calm and incredibly ordinary, every person too busy with their own life to notice the singer in their midst. You love those days. You love being able to let your guard down, to stop being Alex Danvers for just a couple of seconds while in public. You love to just be Alex, a tourist in a city you know little about.

It’s probably a sign, the fact you get one of those days so early on in the tour, though a sign for what you have no idea.

The sunshine is warm for this time of year, you guess. The leaves on the trees are already brown, fall well underway, now. There are children running some yards behind you, voices carrying over and, as you look at the blue sky, clouds sparse and see-through, you feel calm.

Lucy, James and Winn went to get ice cream a while back, the rest of your crew exploring the other side of the park, so you’re alone.

Well, almost. Astra is standing a couple of feet away, but she has been quiet ever since you’d got here, eyes fixed on the horizon.

It’s a pretty view. Breathtaking, even. That’s why you love coming to this park whenever you’re in Seattle. The sight from the space needle is gorgeous, of course, but there’s just something much more grounding about seeing the extension of the city mixed in with the relative stillness of Lake Union.

With the vivid colors and soft breeze, it’s incredibly easy to get lost in your own head.

It's a combination of factors that make you decide to break the silence: the fact that you’ve been too introspective on the last couple of days and you're tired of it, longing for some deeper human connection now; the fact that you turn your head slightly, her side profile invading your view of the landscape, somehow fitting perfectly; the fact that she catches you staring and it would be weirder to just pretend you hadn’t been looking.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“They’re worth a bit more than that.” She says after a moment, face remaining passive. You smile. It’s becoming easier to pick apart her serious tone to her sarcastic one, both really similar. “Though not much.”

“I would give them a full dollar.” You try. The corners of her mouth quirk up the slightest bit.

“Well, this country’s currency is very respected globally, so thank you.”

Her accent always gets much more noticeable when she makes these comments. She does it on purpose, you’re pretty sure, and it makes the irony behind her voice that much funnier.

You wait. When Astra finally turns to you, the sun hits her eyes and, in the few seconds she stays still, you wish you had a camera around. 

It would be a picture worth framing, you think. The bright blue sky melting with the bright blue waters and softly balancing on the blue of her irises. Her jaw a sharp contrast in the middle of rounded shapes. The shoreline, the waves of her hair, the tip of her ear poking through the strands of brown.

It’s gallery worthy, really.

Objectively speaking, of course.

She goes back to looking at the landscape, ending your delusion.

“This city reminds me a lot of my hometown.” Astra says.

“Really? Why?”

“The skyline, the buildings, the fact that it has an underground historical site.”

“Where are you from again?”

“Argo City, Krypton’s capital. Have you ever been?”

“We were supposed to sing there years ago, but the European leg got pulled and-” You pause, realizing what you’ve said. “Pun not intended.”

You chuckle and so does she. You keep talking, a silly smile still on your face. Today is a good day.

“We never ended up going.”

“It’s a really good city. Perhaps not as big as National City or Metropolis, but big enough that you have to make an effort to know all the neighborhoods.”

“That will always sound crazy to me.”

“To not know your entire city?”

“No, that places big enough for that to happen actually exist.”

“I gather you know Midvale in its entirety, then?”

“Back to back, yeah. I guess I’m still a country girl at heart.”

She hums in curiosity and you know she would be writing this down if she’d brought her notebook.

“Is it pretty?” You ask, trying to make a mental note to look up images as soon as you get access to the internet.

“It was a planned city in its inception, though it did grow at too high a rate for the aesthetic to really last, but… yes, yes it was.” Astra begins running her eyes over the buildings on the other side of the lake. You think she no longer sees Seattle in the distance.

“Do you miss it?”

Slowly, as lights gradually dim, her eyes lower until she comes to look down at the lake.

It’s been a problem ever since you were young, this habit of saying things before thinking. It put you in trouble for most of your life, until you’d met Hank, decided to give your solo career an honest go and he trained you for interviews. You got better at keeping a filter on, at least when you’re in a professional setting. It’s different, though, when you decide to learn something. In this instance, you want to learn about someone.

You regret the question, should probably learn to have a bit more tact with her, because she very obviously has some sort of difficult past, judging by the strained voice she usually has while talking about her life, but as she’s done time and time again, Astra answers.

“I miss parts of it. The business where I used to work, a couple of places where I used to meet my friends, and especially the Clean Street policy. People here litter a lot.”

Nodding, you look by your feet, spotting a package of lollipop semi buried under the pebbles.

“I was always far more attached to people than to the place itself, regardless.” She continues.

“I think I’m almost the same.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah…” Your lips press together for a moment. “When I started travelling around more, I missed my family far more than Midvale, but… I would still say that it was my home whenever I was asked about it.”

“But did you think about it as home?” She pushes and your eyes meet. Sometimes you wonder if she’s a mind reader, catching on to the lowest whispers in your brain.

“Well… it was where my mom and Kara were and it was all I’d ever known.”

It’s not an answer but she nods even so, understanding.

Your friends come back with the ice cream and you find a cool spot on the grass to enjoy the treat. It’s not until later, when Luce and James make a bet to see who can get to the gasification structures first and Winn goes to join the other group, that you decide to go back to the subject.

“Why the US, of all places?”

She’s distracted again, reading through a pamphlet she’d picked from a stand at the entrance of the park.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you choose to move here? If our politics suck and we’re _so_ polluted?”

Lucy had been cracking jokes, James pissing her off and Winn tagging him on. It had somehow lifted Astra's mood, so now there’s an easy grin on her lips as she folds the pamphlet in half, placing it in the pocket of her jeans before looking down at you, leaning back on your elbows.

“Realistically?”

“Sure.”

“It was easier to establish ourselves here, getting jobs and whatnot.”

“And unrealistically?”

Her grin loses a bit of its strength.

“I wanted a fresh start.” Astra states. “Someplace that was my own, where I could hold my own reins.”

“Away from your parents.” You remember that late conversation on the bus. “That takes guts.”

She seems to think, gaze lost for a few seconds.

“Yeah, you and I might not be so different after all.” Astra’s grin returns, her eyes on yours.

“Why is that?”

“I moved from one life of stillness to another an ocean away and that’s brave. You live your life in constant motion and that demands bravery in its own right.”

You chuckle. She’s wrong. You live your life on the move because you're the very opposite of brave, but that’s not something you can discuss with her, so you nod anyway.

“Here’s some new information for the book: do you know the first thing I did when I got a place of my own?”

She quirks a brow, interested, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. It makes your stomach turn.

(Yes, you know you’re in trouble. You've known so from the first time you’d seen that look, back when she asked if you’d read her piece about Max. You’re in trouble because you’d consciously ignored all the red flags and still asked her to do this, to come travelling with you and ask about every aspect of your life. She’s talented and probably one of the best writers you’ve ever known, so you one hundred percent believe she’s the right person for this, but she’s also gorgeous and kind and captivating. You have a crush on her, yes. She’s also married, so you’ll never do anything about it. She’s also a _she_ , so she’s completely and undeniably off limits, even if she were single.)

“I bought a huge gallon of OJ and _chugged_ straight from the bottle. I could feel my mom having a heart attack all the way from L.A.” You say.

It has the effect you expected. Astra closes her eyes, laughs honestly, so you do the same.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Hank usually checks in on you once a week, asking about the concerts and anything that should be rearranged. He really prefers to travel with you, always, but since you employ the same people every time, your tours are well-oiled machines by now, which makes him coming along not that necessary anymore.

He’s supposed to meet you at the airport in Vancouver when you land later today though, so when you wake up to your ringing phone at 7am and see his name on the caller ID, you know something’s up.

“Hey.” You rub one eye, hunching over in bed.

“Good morning. Don’t you have a plane to catch?” He seems almost normal, but you know how to listen for the quiver that indicates he's trying to sound calmer than he is. The quiver is there.

“Yeah, in three hours. That means I wake up at eight.”

“You’ve always liked cutting it too close.”

“I arrive at places on time, that’s what matters.”

“In part.”

You’re tired and sleepy.

“Hank, what is it?”

“I just woke up myself, so I only just saw it. Apparently, there were some paps in the park yesterday.”

Your stomach sinks and you try to remember what the hell you could have done to end up in tabloids.

“Do you have your computer on you?”

“Yeah, gimme a sec.”

It takes you a minute or so to open the laptop, turn it on and get it working, your anxiety flaring up. Lucky day your ass.

“I sent you an email with the link.” Hank sighs.

When the page loads, you feel like crying. You can never stop being Alex Danvers. You can never really step away from the spotlight, because it follows you wherever you go, eager to shine a light on everything, especially on things you refuse to show willingly.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

**LESBIAN ROMANCE? ALEX DANVERS SEEN ON COZY PICNIC WITH UNKNOWN WOMAN! SEE PICTURES BELLOW!**

The 32-year-old popstar, who’s filling up stadiums and arenas all over the country with her _Something’s Gotta Give_ _Tour_ , was spotted yesterday accompanied by an unknown brunette in Gas Works Park, Seattle, where she played just two nights prior. The duo seemed at ease with each other as they talked and laughed. Some other people from Alex’s band were also seen at the park, though they seemed to be keeping their distance from the couple.

Here are the pictures exclusively obtained by our team:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, your comments are always appreciated.


	6. six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnd we're back to astra

It lasts for a few days, Alex’s weariness. She is always pleasant and kind, that does not change, least of all when she is performing, but whenever she is not in the spotlight, she is uncharacteristically quiet. You almost ask her what is wrong when Hank requests your permission to release a statement about the production of the book, Alex standing a foot behind him, gaze lost and shoulders straighter than usual. You refrain from doing so because that is not your job and you’re already feeling the inkling to have unrelated conversations all too often. You cannot feed into this.

However, even with the statement made and the emails for comments beginning to pour into your inbox, she still does not brighten up. Your questions are more or less answered the same, or, that is, the content is the same, but there is very little enthusiasm behind each phrase, making for tiring meetings.

Lucy seems to know what the mood is about, considering she too is more demure, but she knows enough not to say anything, so everything is simply off. You think it may be something too personal to discuss, or perhaps something to do with the technicalities of the tour, but, as it’s usually the case, Cat finds out the truth before you do.

“They didn’t talk to you about it?” She sounds surprised and slightly outraged.

“Why would they?”

“Because it involves you directly.”

You frown, cellphone pressed tightly to your ear. You’re thankful that you have a proper bedroom for the night, because this does not seem like it will be appropriate for anyone else to hear.

“How do you mean, Cat?”

“I  _ cannot _ believe they didn’t discuss this with you. Honestly, I’m disappointed, I thought she was better than this.”

“Yes, so did I, now tell me.”

And she does. You log into the website to see the pictures for yourself. The lines underneath each one are corny and repetitive at best, barely reporting at worst. It does not sit well with you, neither the pictures nor the secret.

Cat tries to understand what you’re thinking, but since you can’t completely grasp it either, you end the call, promising to text her if you need anything.

“Even if that is helping to reprimand a superstar.” She says, trying to insert some humour. You don’t laugh.

Looking at yourself in those photos, loose and calm, you feel eerily attacked, a nauseating churn in your stomach.

It reminds you all too much of what happened with Max. The speculation, the invasion of privacy, the exposure.

All in all, you are proud of the shield you have managed to create between yourself and the world, more so of the way you’ve learned to take said shield off when you judge the situation safe. You have more or less felt safe around Alex. Not completely, of course, but she is harmless enough to open up to.

And, despite being somehow counterintuitive, the fact that Max has already forcefully showed so much of your story to the world has made it a little easier to tentatively share some things with Alex as well.

You hadn’t thought of Krypton like you had in that park for a long time. It was refreshing, really, so much so that you’d felt a tingling of longing in the depths of your chest. Seattle was extremely similar to your hometown, even the smell awakening memories you’d long buried.

When Alex had asked you about coming to this country, you had thought of leaving your homeland for the first time in years and the unbearable sadness usually attached to those memories had been weaker than you’d expected, moments of laughing with Alura and planning your imaginary visit to Disney keeping the pain at bay.

Seeing yourself on your computer screen is alarming. The fact that no one in Alex’s team thought it appropriate mentioning this is infuriating and that is what makes you leave your bedroom, take the lift to the last floor and walk with a certain determination to the door at the end of the hallway.

You know by now she’s a night owl, so you feel no hesitation in knocking.

You expect a tired yet welcoming Alex to open the door. You expect a defeated posture and a wondering gaze. Once the handle turns, however, you’re greeted by Kara, with street clothes and confused at seeing you.

It does not deter you.

“Hi, good evening. Can I help you?” She leans against the frame, holding the door semi-closed, so you can’t see much behind her.

“Yes, hello. I would like to talk to your sister, please.”

“It’s kinda late…” Kara frowns, eyes apologetic, a slight edge to her voice.

“It won’t take long.”

She twists her neck, looking somewhere inside the room, somewhere you think Alex must be waiting.

“Oh, Al just fell asleep, sorry.” Kara turns back to you. She is a very bad liar. If you were younger, you would have pushed past her, demanded an explanation with more fervor. If you were younger and if you still had the same fire burning inside of you, it would take all of two minutes to make your revulsion at being kept in the dark clear.

You are not younger and the fire that had burned you at seeing the pictures is not enough for you to lose this job, so you sigh.

You do not believe for a second anyone is sleeping inside that room, so you decide to do the only thing you can to appease your nerves and get your message across, at least for the time being.

“Can you give her a message when she wakes up, then?”

“Yeah, happy to.” Kara smiles now. 

“Please tell her I would like to be informed if I am further involved in tabloid gossip, especially if it involves pictures taken without my knowledge.” You manage to sound calm, which is a relief, but not a surprise. You have had practice, after all.

“Uhm…” She swallows. Nods. “I’ll pass it on.”

“Thank you. Have a good night.”

Turning to leave as Kara begins closing the door, still confused, you mull over the photos in your mind. Her head leant back, laughing up at the sky, your hands loosely held together around your knees, the sun shining on both of you. It had been a nice enough moment. Too bad nothing truly innocent can really last in your life, apparently.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear a handle turning again.

“Hey, wait.” Alex’s voice does not startle you.

She stops some feet away and, meeting her gaze, you’re slightly taken aback. Her face is a bit puffy, her eyes red. She was crying, it’s clear to see even if there are no tears per se.

“Come in.”

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

It’s been a couple of minutes since you two got to her balcony. Alex leans against the railing, head turned down towards the traffic many floors below. She seems to be gathering her thoughts and the indignation inside you is still very prominent, though somehow quieter now.

“I’m sorry about the pictures.” Alex begins. “These tabloids, they… they take anything and build a story around it, even if it’s not true.”

“I have the right to be informed when I am involved in news.”

“I had every intention of telling you. We were just trying to sort it out before that, maybe get them to take the article down.”

“Although that is very noble of you and your team, you should have told me as soon as it was published. It is my image, after all.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Especially that you got mixed up with  _ this _ sort of tabloid. They always try to push this lesbian thing, but I wish it hadn’t spilled over on you too-”

“I couldn’t care less about that.” You cut her off, a little impatient that she can’t seem to get the point. Alex looks at you, surprised. “The subject of the article is harmless, really, homesexuality shouldn’t be an offense. What I don’t like and what I won’t accept is having things spread about me without my consent. I stood by while that happened before, but not this time.”

“Oh.” Is all she says, nodding absentmindedly.

It takes her shoulders sinking, her gaze wandering back down for you to understand the reason she couldn’t grasp why you are angry. You remember her Wikipedia page, something dawning on you.

( _ A lot has been speculated about the singer’s sexuality over the years, many affirming she is, in fact, gay. _ )

“Do you think you will manage to get the website to take them down?” You ask, a little less angry, a bit more worried.

“Uhm… maybe, if we move a lawsuit against it saying the article is defamatory.” She sighs.

“Defamatory?” That is stupid.

“Ridiculous, I know, which is why I don’t wanna go forward with that, but if I don’t, there’s really not much else left to do.” She looks defeated and you don’t exactly know what to say, now that you’ve gotten your frustration out.

“If you’re trying to take it down on my account…” You exhale, trying to push out the anger (even if it seems to be going away by itself), “don’t. I do not like the pictures, but they already exist and if the rumour was to really spread, it would have done so by now.”

“Won’t your husband mind?”

It gives you pause, it brings guilt forward. You hadn’t considered that.

Non had only ever been understanding when the leaked photos had begun surfacing three years ago. He’d sat by your side while you fumed, brought you a glass of water when you read through every article, researching your own name every couple of hours. He’d made sure to stay away as long as necessary, when Alura had called.

He had never, however, asked about anything on his own account. He’d never researched you, never looked for a single report without you explicitly telling him to. There wasn’t any initiative on his part to take the attack on you to heart.

“No. We have been together for almost fifteen years, so if he minded a couple of insinuatory paragraphs on some unknown tabloid, that would mean we have bigger problems to deal with.”

She smiles tightly and politely, nods.

“Unless you’re trying to get the article down for other reasons.” You try. Alex fiddles with her fingers.

“Off the record?” She waits for your confirmation, voice small. “I’m just  _ tired _ of everything in my life being analysed. It’s already exhausting when it comes to my music, but that’s the job, so I can accept it. But my personal life is always up for grabs too.” Alex pauses, scoffs humourlessly before continuing. “It’s like living in an aquarium, in constant display and almost nowhere to hide.”

You bend your arms, hands wrapping around each elbow, and rest against the wall.

“I despise those.” You sigh. She looks back at you. “Aquariums, that is. I’ve always found it cruel, to cage an animal that was made to wander the world just to appease our curiousity.”

“What if the animal needs the aquarium to survive?” Alex asks, obviously finding a metaphor in what you said.

“It’s still a little abusive, don’t you think? You need me to survive, so I reserve the right to explore your life in exchange.”

Alex stays quiet for a moment.

“Is this the reason why you are constantly on the move?”

“How do you mean?” She sounds firmer, even if she still looks defeated.

“You have been recording albums and going on tours nonstop for the past eight years. Are you resorting to ‘hiding in plain sight’? It's not a judgement, of course.”

“I just love music.” She offers as an explanation.

“Yes, but you can love something without allowing it to drain you.” Theoretically, it’s a simple enough concept, though you know far too well it is hard to assimilate.

In a single moment, you are back to that night in Krypton, marching alongside three hundred others, shouting at your blinded government, demanding the change you so wholeheartedly believed was necessary, facing down armor-clad police officers. Your mind cuts ahead to meeting your mother’s eyes through the bars at the station, disappointment and irrefutable sadness laying clear on her face. You loved your freedom, you loved your cause, and it drained the last bits of hope your family had for you.

“I don’t know if I know how to do that.” She chuckles, biting her lower lip immediately after, her eyes shining, but no tears falling. “I just… I love what I do so much, I wouldn’t trade it for the world and the thought of losing it is kinda paralyzing.” Alex straightens her posture, grabs the railing, knuckles turning white with the strain. “But being in the public eye demands an amount of  _ consciousness  _ over everything you do. I didn’t think that I would mind it, at the beginning, but it grows old  _ very _ fast. And I learned through the years too, you know? Because I have common sense and I know that not everything can be made public without causing  _ more _ work. Most days I still don’t mind, but there are times, like today, when it’s just a lot.”

Alex sighs heavily.

You understand, as the skin around her eyes begins to blush while she swallows down the obvious want to cry and the night city lights reflect on her glassy eyes, why she provokes so many sparks within you.

Alex Danvers is, in nearly every sense of the word, vibrant. She is exuberantly invested in every situation she is in, making her an electrifying force of energy to whoever approaches. Alex is interesting and talented and so incredibly giving that it is impossible not to be at least curious.

She is also, unfortunately, reliant on that. She needs to shine on others, she needs to contribute, even if there are no sources to replenish her own energy.

It is no wonder she is burning out.

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

“You have talked every day for a month, how are you not finished?”

“We nearly are, Non, but there are a few more subjects I want to address before wrapping up.”

“And they are okay with this? With the extra expenses?”

“Yes, an extension was expected from the beginning.The arrangement is still the same, half of the hotel fees come out of my advantage, the publishing house bears the rest.”

He hums.

“You’re certain you are not staying for other reasons? You seemed very comfortable in those photographs.”

You wait, quiet. He is very competent at realizing when he angers you.

“I am sorry.” Non sighs not long after.

“Do you have something you would like to ask me?”

He stays silent for a second too many. You are certain the true answer is  _ yes  _ as much as you’re certain of what he will actually say.

“No.” Your husband states. “I’m sorry, dear.”

“I’ll be home soon enough, Non.”

“Of course.”

You should really reflect on what this means, but, instead, you choose to review the draft of the book’s first chapter due later today.

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

Similarly to her sister, Kara Danvers is magnetic and kind, accepting to talk with you with a simple nod and smile. Looking at her, Lucy’s nickname seems clearer. With her blonde hair and pastel-colored outfits, she does really resemble the sun.

As Alex goes through soundcheck, she sits with you in the dressing room.

“I hope the book shows how incredible she is.” Kara comments, picking up a bottle of water from the snack table.

“I’ll do my best.” You say, regretting your choice of clothing as your bra strap digs into your shoulder.

Kara gives you a soft smirk.

“The crazy thing is that she has no idea how  _ awesome  _ she is. Like, thousands of people telling her that exact same thing and it just seems to go over her head.”

“Perhaps that is because fans don’t really know their idols, do they?”

“Maybe, but it’s not just the fans. She’s been inspiring ever since we were kids.”

“How so?”

“Like when dad died and mom was-” Kara begins speaking absentmindedly while picking at the bottle’s label. She stops mid-sentence, eyes bulging for half a second, a deer caught in headlights.

You wait. She slowly meets your eyes, giving you a sheepish grin, like someone who went too far and now apologizes for not carrying on. Despite no physical relation, the expression is almost a mirror to her sister’s recurring one.

“I was in the system for a while.” She changes subjects. “Was put in so young I don’t really remember my birth parents and, when I was adopted, I was 7 and maybe a little too awkward.”

Kara states this in a plain tone, casually talking despite the slight frown on her previously unmarked forehead. You admire her for that.

“Social interaction was once very hard for me, believe it or not.” Little lines appear by the sides of her eyes when she smiles. “And I clung to Al like she was my lifeline, but, ya know, when she used to ask mom and dad for a baby sister, I don’t think she really meant someone out of diapers, so she always used to avoid me whenever she could, which included at school.

“Kids were… rough with newbies, especially when said newbies didn’t know how to speak up and carried a teddy bear around.” Her voice dips a fraction here. “But let’s just say that I may not have known how to keep up conversations, but I did know how to fight, so there was a lot of it. No teacher ever stopped it, though, I have no idea why. Then there was this one night where I woke up from a nightmare and neither mom nor dad heard it, but Alex did. She showed up in my room, sat by the foot of my bed and we just talked.  _ A lot _ . It was the first time we bunked down together.” Kara grins, eyes shining. “Then, the next day, a boy in my class that was twice my size decided to pick on me. I was kinda lost in the middle of it, you know? Throwing punches and all, so I didn’t see where Al came from, but she was there suddenly and when I tell you she  _ kicked his butt... _ ”

You shake your head, a smile appearing on your lips as the same picture of a bowl-haired Alex from so long ago reappears in your mind.

“She had your back.” You supply. Kara nods, the fondest of looks shining in her gaze.

“From then on, always. Al would rather hurt herself a thousand times than let anyone hurt someone she loves.” She drinks a bit of water before continuing. “She broke her arm in that fight, couldn’t play anything for months afterwards.”

You remember lonely Alex. You remember her depiction of her life of stillness before she’d found music and, instantly, you have the plain understanding of how incredibly hard that must have been for the young girl.

“She told me I never had to fight like that again, so I never did. Alex defends what she loves with tooth and nail and she loves with her whole heart. That includes her work.” Kara seems to finish. “That’s what I mean by inspiring. Please make sure that’s the Alex you write about.” It’s not a demand, but a beg, something fundamental.

You nod and then, because it is impossible for you to help it:

“Does the job love her back?”

She stops, bottle halfway to her mouth.

“No.” Kara gives the smallest shake of her head, “But we do and I just pray that’s enough.”

_ lovelovelove _

_ Mother has been crying on the back steps for an hour, you can hear the sobs all the way up the stairs and through the corridor. Father is in his study, phone glued to his ear, three physicians called and intensively questioned already. _

_ You had been so tired when you’d gotten home, regretting all the hours spent doing nothing that led to you staying up through the night to study for your Advanced Mathematics test. It’d gone well, most questions within the realm of your understanding, and when you had turned the keys in the front door, the only thing on your mind had been the softness of your pillow awaiting you. _

_ You’d heard the desperation in your parents shouting immediately, your body becoming alert. You had made your way to the sitting room where they were, sadness hanging thick in the air, your sister nowhere to be found. In the seconds it had taken for Father to notice your presence, you’d caught on to some of their conversation. _

_ Lung cancer. Not too advanced, but bad. Hard treatment, hard on the body and on the family. She’s only seventeen, how can she be sick? How can this be? How can she have chemotherapy? _

_ “Is it Alura?” You'd asked. _

_ If someone had recorded you then, played it back to you later, you would not have recognized your voice, filled with plea, incredibility, fear. _

_ “You. How did you not notice? She said she has been feeling lightheaded for weeks. How did you not notice?” Your mother had turned to you, sharp, guttural, scared. It’d hurt all the same. _

_ Father was the cruel one, father was the blamer. _

_ As further proof of the world reversing itself, he had been the one to reprimand her. The one to defend you. _

_ “We did not notice, either.” He’d said. _

_ “Alura?” It hadn’t made sense, your brain somehow stuck, bouncing on the walls, the furniture, running through the formulas you’d ingrained into it during the small hours of the night. _

_ “Yes, yes, Alura. Your sister. Our baby. Alura.” Your mother had snapped, walking out of the room. _

_ You’d huffed a breath, incredulous. Your eyes had drifted to your father, hands on his hips, jaw tight. You’d never seen him scared before and it had snapped you back into focus, it’d connected you back to that string in your chest, invisible for anyone besides you and  _ her _. You’d followed it to the house’s second story, taking two steps at a time, heart beating against your ribcage. _

_ You’d arrived at her door, dropped your bag to the floor, raised a fist, desperate, still trying to accept, needing to see her, needing to look at her to know what was going on in her mind. _

_ Fear painted all the surfaces of the house and, in a split second, you had understood that the aggressive noise of a fist banging on a door was not ideal. So you’d tapped the wood lightly, sure she’d heard you coming up. _

_ “‘lura?” You’d tried. “Can I come in?” _

_ It’d taken her precious moments to reply. _

_ “Not now.” You’d heard. _

_ “Please.” _

_ “Not now, Astra!” She’d screamed and you’d had whiplash. _

_ So here you sit, beside your sister’s closed door, Mother outside, probably dehydrated, Father desperately searching for a way not to traumatize his baby girl, to ease his guilt for not noticing. _

_ You don’t expect her to open the door, but you are too tired and your legs have given up. You’re tired and you are no longer confused. _

_ Heartbeat back to normal, you know that whatever must happen next will not begin tonight. You have time, even if its precise amount is now somehow more uncertain than ever. _

_ Your sister, your twin, had gone to the doctors to look into a simple cough and fatigue and has returned with a cancer diagnosis. _

_ You lean your head against the wall, exhausted, and hear something shifting inside Alura’s room. Then a lock turning, a handle being twisted, wood shifting and steps beside you. She stares at you for a few seconds, willing you to face her. _

_ She seems more tired than you. _

_ Without a word, she sits by your side. _

_ “So no more cigarettes then, yeah?” She says in an English accent after some silence, mimicking your Science professor after last week’s Health seminar. _

_ You chuckle, chuckle, laugh and suddenly the air catches in your throat, your chest tight. There’s fright vibrating all around, but Alura is somehow still. _

_ “No.” She says, firm. Takes your hand, laces your fingers. “You are not allowed to cry as well. In fact, you are not allowed to lash out, either. You must be our balance, you must be normal, you must pull us along, all right?” _

_ Your sister is serious, hasn’t sounded this intense in years. There are things you want to ask her, things you ought to know. Details, plans, the road ahead. _

_ She has just shown you the map, however, and your chest is still far too tight for you to make any sound that isn’t half broken. _

_ You choose to only nod. _

_ Slowly, she relaxes against you, some minutes later placing her head on your shoulder. _

_ “Shit.” You pull the pack of cigarettes from your pocket, throwing it against the opposite wall hard. You both watch as it thuds against the floor, lifeless. _

_ “No lashing out, S.” Alura says after, returning the childhood nickname you’d resurrected minutes before. _

_ At night, when everything is quiet, you make your way through the passage connecting your rooms and lie by her side. _

_ Both of you take a while to fall asleep. _

_ You do not rest. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, your feedback is always appreciated


	7. seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the hiatus is over, we're officially back on tour.

One thing you have come to realize over the past month and a half is that you like to travel actually way less than you’d initially thought. The fond memories you have of vacations when you were young do not compare in the slightest to actually being on the move every single day.

The bunks, although probably as comfortable as possible, started feeling too small by the end of the first week (and you made a mental note to apologise to your husband for taking up so much space in bed once you were rudely awoken by someone bumping into your outstretched arm, invisible in the dark, but nonetheless a barrier in the middle of the corridor).

The group, kind, funny and welcoming, have started to feel like something resembling friends, or at least acquaintances, but if you had once thought they were too demure to be in this business, by now you are acutely aware of their tendencies to bursts of energy and loud chatter.

Perhaps it is cabin fever, or just your social battery running on an all time low, that causes you to be in a sour mood on one of the longer trips from one concert location to another. You seek refuge in the upstairs lounge room, the band making a communal lunch downstairs, packing the kitchen area with too many people and too much noise. You wish you had bought ear plugs at the last pharmacy you had seen. And though you really should focus on your work, you made the mistake of perusing through one of the books you’d brought along and it’d reminded you why you’d even bothered to do so.

That is why you lean against the junction of the L-shaped couch under the window, the road passing by outside a comforting background image as you rest the volume on your drawn legs, losing yourself in the story more or less effectively, only remembering your own reality with the booming laughter from the people below.

You’re halfway through the seventh chapter when you notice footsteps on the stairs. Deciding not to make eye contact in case that encourages the newcomer to talk, you keep staring at the page (even if you’re too anxious about the possible interaction to actually read anything).

“There you are.” Someone says softly.

Sighing internally, you look over to see Alex, face friendly and a plate in each hand.

“You _are_ truly good at disappearing, huh? You slipped away without anyone noticing.” She walks over, sits by your feet, not seeming to mind the physical proximity.

“A skill of mine, as my husband would say.” Pulling yourself to a better sitting position, you consequently widen the distance between your bodies. She extends a plate towards you.

“Lunch’s ready.”

“Oh, that is kind, but I didn’t participate in the pool.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head.

“I got a couple of things at the last venue we were in.”

“You can’t survive on vending machine food.” Alex chuckles, moving the plate an inch closer, so you take it. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

You smirk, that sounding like something characteristically _her_. “Thank you. You didn’t have to make my plate, though.”

“I didn’t, James did. He sent me up too, said you seemed a little extra tired today.” She must see your confusion, because she carries on. “It’s a touring thing. We’re stuck together for a long time, if we don’t take care of each other when we’re not feeling well, it all goes downhill. Quickly.”

You nod slightly, tasting the food.

“Do you mind?” Alex picks up her own fork, motioning to her plate. “There’s nowhere else to sit down there.”

“Not at all.”

So you eat in silence, the slice of chicken breast well cooked with a crispy outside, the green beans a bit underdone and the mashed potatoes probably the best you’ve ever eaten. It isn’t unusual for your mind to wander when you are in this mood, at least, not when you’re comfortable, so Alex’s soft chuckle a while later is a gentle awakening.

“You really are a revolutionary, aren’t you?” She picks up the book from where you’d placed it, between the outside of your thigh and the sofa, spine upwards. Her thumb brushes briefly against your leg as she takes the volume. You feel it intensely, even through your thick jeans.

“It seems to be good, although I do have some difficulties with alternative historical events.”

“Of course you do.” Alex smirks kindly, catching your eyes for a second before returning to the book. As she reads through the back cover, you can see ‘The Plot Against America’ printed in bold brown letters on the front. “I don’t know, it seems nice to think about the ‘what ifs’.”

“Why?”

“Well… It’s fun!” Her smirk morphes into the smile she has when she doesn’t know how to answer one of your questions. “And… It's kind of like a real life fairytale. Food for thought.”

“I’ve never seen much use in that.” You admit. “The truth is in front of you, is here, palpable, factual. Why would you waste time dreaming when you could be living, striving for change?”

“Because sometimes we can’t change our lives.” She puts her empty plate to her side, turning so she can face you fully and lean her head against her closed fist. It’s yet another sign of hers, you file away. She’s invested in the conversation. “Sometimes, the only place we can escape is within.”

“There’s always a way to change.”

“Maybe, but a lot of times you have to be willing to make some sort of sacrifice to do that.”

“That is life, though, isn’t it? We can’t always have everything.”

“We can.” She looks away from you for a second. “Even if only in our minds.” Alex returns to you, a gleeful glint shining at making her point. It forces a grin to break through your expression.

“Daydreaming is a torturing practice.”

“You’re a writer. How can you believe that?”

“Is your life all a daydream, then?”

“Oh, shut up.” She rolls her eyes, still playful. “Yeah, fine, you’re writing about facts _right now_ , but you do have some novels as well.”

Your grin fades away.

“I wrote those a long time ago.”

“They’re masterpieces. You may not like it, but you can travel to some amazing places, if you choose to.”

“Perhaps.” You wonder, looking at the book still in her hold, when precisely you chose to stop. You remember not being able to think of wonderful things anymore. You remember being tired, being bored and frozen in place, and not being able to imagine anything besides maintaining your relationship, your daily routine in a place that did not feel like home, and hide your longing for your family. You remember the opportunity to write about Max seeming like a break from those moments of stillness. A shiver runs down your spine when you realize you’d felt the same when you chose to take this job.

“I wish I could read more.” Alex mumbles, breaking your train of thought, turning the book over before handing it back.

“So do I, really.” You admit yet again.

“An author who doesn’t daydream _or_ read, how’s that possible?”

“Do you listen to other artists when you’re making a new album?” You return, arching an eyebrow.

She smiles sheepishly, just like Kara the day before.

“Point taken.” Alex chuckles.

“But to be honest, I haven’t done it much even before now.” You say, voice low.

The memories of accepting this deal and the previous hang heavy and cloudy in your mind, your throat tight with an eagerness to say things you’ve not spoken yet.

“Because you were too busy or....?” Alex tries 

“Whatever happened with Max was somewhat foreseeable.” You breathe deeply, averting your eyes to the last green bean on your plate, probably cold by now. “We all knew he was a proud man who wouldn’t take his reputation being questioned without retaliating in kind, but both Cat and I agreed that someone who built his name by stealing other people’s productions didn’t deserve protection. But the retaliation was…. _rougher_ than anyone could have thought. I came to regret writing the book, so I decided to take a break from writing in general.” You swallow, risking a glimpse at her. She’s still invested, which makes continuing easier. “The thing, which I think you would understand if you ever had to quit singing because of somebody else, is that it can hurt quite a lot, to see another person succeeding in a field you still love so fiercely. I couldn’t really absorb a book's true greatness if I couldn’t see past what I would have done if I were its author, so it was simpler for me not to read them at all.”

Alex seems to think.

“I can’t exactly relate to what you’ve been through, but I do understand. I’m always afraid of that happening to my career, honestly. Not of having someone retaliate, but of something happening that just pushes me out.”

“Not that my opinion counts too much, but I’ve been researching your career quite thoroughly and I do think I know you a little after this experiment, so I can’t see anything you could _ever_ do that would make you fall from people’s good graces.”

“Thanks.” She chuckles again, a bit disconcerted. “And it does count, by the way. Your opinion, that is.”

Alex looks at you, as honest as you’ve ever seen, and you breathe in, confused, but beginning to understand, because her try to relate to your situation counts, too.

“There are just some things you couldn’t possibly know about, even with your research.”

A heavy silence follows, where she probably waits for you to ask after what she means.

“I don’t need to know the details.” You choose to say.

“What happened with ‘I don’t gloss over hard subjects’?”

“That is for professional conversations, which I don’t consider this to be one of.”

Her lips form a small smile.

Heavy footsteps pound on the stairs.

“Hey, you two, there’s dessert. Vasquez found Jake’s candy stash.” Kara informs, stopping by the last step.

“Uh, is there any Milky Way?” Alex sits up.

“I think so, but you better hurry up.”

The singer stands, makes to follow her sister, but stops, looking back at you.

“Go ahead, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Alex nods.

“Hey, Kar, what do you think about Max Lord?” She asks as the two begin to descend the stairs.

“He's a pompous asshole, why?”

“Just wondering.” Alex answers innocently, but when she meets your eyes over her shoulder, you know exactly what she meant. You ignore the smirk that appears on your lips.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

As you, Kara and Alex sit behind closed doors, there’s heaviness in the air, the white walls and bright lights almost too violent for the moment. You’re relieved you had mentioned this moment beforehand, because she seems prepared, though still uncomfortable.

“My dad was always a lousy driver. He hated having to go get us from school, so he taught me to ride a bike when I was four and then Kara as soon as she came to live with us. He had all the patience in the world to do the most boring things, but he couldn’t sit still behind a wheel. Mom would always make fun of him that he could insert a millimeter-thick needle in a tiny little cell and was somehow incapable of shifting gears in traffic. He would get all flustered when she did that, but he would always kiss her cheek and mumble some half-assed comeback. He knew he sucked at driving too.

Dad only did it when there was no other choice or when he wanted to do something in secret. He loved doing that. Surprising us, that is. ‘No greater feeling in the world’, he’d say, ‘than unexpected happiness’. We didn’t find out why he was driving so early in the morning until days later, when a flower shop in the next town over called asking why he hadn’t picked up the yellow orchids he’d ordered. It turns out it was the anniversary of my parents’ first date, which had been to their prom, and he’d given mom an orchid corsage.

The officers said later that the track marks showed he was in the right lane and that he probably wasn’t speeding, that he was just unlucky to be caught by a drunk driver running from the police.

So, you know, you can see the irony in my dad, who was awful at driving, dying at one of the few times he was actually doing it right….

Anyway, Mom was really out of it for a while, especially after finding out about the orchids thing, and she can’t really see them to this day without crying. Kara was sad and I was in shock, I think.”

“What did you do?”

“What I had to. I kept going to school, I helped a bit around the house, I-”

“Alex, you didn’t just help around the house, you started making lunch and dinner and cleaning and making sure Mom remembered to pay the bills.” Kara interferes, voice small.

“It wasn’t a big deal, someone had to do it and Mom couldn’t right then.” She sounds defensive.

“How did you move on as a family?”

“Like everyone else, I guess. You face one day after the other until something important and mundane happens and you realize that the only way to live from then on is without that person. For us, the mundane thing was when Grandma came over one day, said we were cleaning out Dad’s stuff and Mom kinda snapped, had a huge fight with everyone and then just… cried. We all did, too, but seeing his things in boxes…. it made us realize he wasn’t coming back. And my dad would not have wanted us to be lost without him. So we had to find our way again.”

“Did that reflect on your music?”

“I wrote about him a lot, but many of those weren’t very good. I think that what changed the most was just Mom, really. Dad was always the one who took me to competitions and listened to my demos and asked me how my imaginary tours would be. Mom was more realistic, honestly. She thought it was a far-fetched career, which she was right about, of course, but somehow she managed to step up after he died. She still thought it was crazy, but she didn’t mention it as much. I don’t know why.”

“Probably because you’re the brightest person in our family and after Dad passed you wanted to give up on the thing that made you so bright.”

“Either way, it wasn’t the same, but I think he would have been proud of her.” Alex deflects.

“Do you think he would be proud of you?” You ask.

“I don’t know, I like to think so.”

“Al, wherever Dad is, I know with everything I have that he is _so_ proud of you.” Kara leans forward, takes her sister’s hand.

You stare down at your notebook, notes filling the page even around the edges of the page, and you feel a desperate urge to do the same.

That baffles you.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Yet another thing you have come to realize spending your hours on a tour bus is that you are somehow enamored with middle-of-nowhere places. There’s a quiet sort of serenity, of unending possibility, at driving down a long, unmarked road with not much but the wilderness around. It’s uniquely soothing, with the long stretches of pavement and surrounding terrain somehow anonymous. You could be anywhere in the world, the land seeming almost nationless.

You are leaving in a week, it’s been decided. All the checkpoints you’ve made at the beginning, the long list of subjects to get through, have finally been marked as addressed. Looking at Alex from across the small downstairs living room, you understand that you know her as well as one could without a closer personal relation.

You conclude that you actually like her.

You conclude that this has been a better experience than you could have ever imagined, despite its primary similarities to whatever happened to Max, the main difference being that now, at the end of this journey, you know Alex is good.

This bus ride, as if it was a last trial, is the longest so far. You have to drive through the afternoon, the entire night, and part of the following morning. Unlike a month ago, Alex’s presence isn’t a surprise. You recall her comment about precious little time to spend with her bandmates and it is all too clear why she so easily foregoes flying.

Finding yourself in the middle of that group of people, chuckling and watching the familiar banter between the old friends as they recall funny memories with the singer, makes you feel weirdly in place.

“She is a really good dancer, believe it or not.” Kara smiles, munching on some M&M’s. “We would always have these dance parties that drove Mom nuts because we would stomp around upstairs.”

“Dance parties?” You arch an eyebrow, eyes shifting to Alex, noticing her cheeks turning a furious shade of pink.

“That is not making it into the book.” She warns.

You all smirk.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to tell people that you used to know the entire choreography to-”

“Kara-”

“[ The Loco-motion ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=at51fppmyHU&ab_channel=KylieMinogueH)?” The blonde giggles earnestly, Lucy right along with her, Alex groaning profusely.

“Okay, you know you are going to have to show us now, right?” Vasquez points to the open space between the booths and the kitchen area.

“Absolutely not.” Alex crosses her arms.

“Honestly, Al, it was so fun and I bet you still know it.” Lucy tries helping.

“Nope.”

“You’re not fooling anyone pretending to be shy, Danvers.” James joins in.

“Nevermind, I’m sure Mom recorded it without her knowing anyway.” Kara continues.

“She did not!” Alex sits up straighter, panic clear in her voice.

“Did too. She probably has it stored somewhere. Maybe we can release it as a DVD feature or something.”

“I will literally murder you.” The older sister warns, exasperated.

You feel settled, entertained and welcome in a space that should not feel safe, with people you probably won’t see again, but something deep within you hums with pleasure and comfort, making you bold.

“Come on,” you interrupt the back and forth, their attention turning towards you, “let her be.”

James and Lucy roll their eyes, Kara chuckles and Vasquez scoffs.

“Thank you!” Alex raises her arm, pointing at you with her hand and looking directly at her sister.

“I mean, you clearly can't be very good at it, so of course you shouldn’t be bullied into embarrassing yourself.”

Alex’s eyes meet yours, stunned, as the rest of the group starts laughing. You wink at her and watch as a slow half-smile appears on her face.

The spark is in full force and, for some reason, you know it is reflected in your own gaze.

You try not to dwell on what came over you to do such a thing, but there’s a rush through your veins now.

“I want to say I’m surprised at you, but I always knew you had some spice behind all that poise.” Lucy stands up, going to the minifridge, a mock flirtatious tone to her voice.

“I didn’t know I was so easily read.” You return.

She fumbles around the inside of the fridge for a second.

“Well, I’ve always been an avid reader.” Lucy closes the appliance, now holding a bottle of wine.

“As the saying goes, it’s best never to judge a book by its cover.”

Smirking, she raises the bottle.

“Now that we know the newbie is cool, how about we officially initiate her in our traditions?”

“I’m surprised you waited this long.” Kara chuckles, fighting to grab another M&M from the emptying package.

James fetches some cups from a little cabinet, passing them around as Lucy pours a generous amount of the drink for each person. When she stops in front of you, feet apart enough to keep her stabilized through the rocking of the moving bus, she still has a devious expression.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” You joke.

“Yeah, maybe we should form a book club or something.”

Eyes meeting and realizing how ridiculously far the metaphor has gone, you both laugh at the same time.

“Alright, fine.” Alex’s voice sounds perhaps a bit louder than before, cutting into your exchange. “Next time the song plays on the radio, I’ll do it.”

“Let me get that radio up, then.” Vasquez says, rushing to talk to the driver. Soon enough, music begins playing through the air.

“You know it’s not really fair when the chances of that song playing are next to zero, right?” You comment. It’s Alex’s time to wink.

Conversation starts flowing easily, James somehow locking you and Lucy into talking about DC comic books. The man gets slightly angry when she mentions Marvel’s superiority and although you don’t agree with her, you do find it amusing to see someone his size getting flustered over superheroes.

“This is why our relationship didn’t work!” He flaps his hands around, agitated. You hide your shock at this new piece of information.

“James, our relationship didn’t work because you’re incapable of picking up your god-damned socks off the floor. Also, I’m gay.” Lucy pokes his chest, a smirk firmly in place.

His frown melts away almost immediately, a chuckle escaping.

“Yeah, there’s that too. But you’re still wrong.”

“Why? Because I don’t kiss Superman’s ass?” She crosses her arms.

He begins going over points he’s already made, so, extracting yourself from the circle, you swiftly climb up the stairs. Careful not to wake the sleeping part of the band, you silently walk through the bunks and find your polaroid camera among your things.

There’d been talks about using some of the photos you’ve taken in the book and since everyone has given you permission beforehand, you know this afternoon must be registered.

Once, Non had asked you why you still did it, still insisted on instant cameras when digital ones were so much more reliable. You hadn’t had an answer for him then but, as you climb back down to the first floor, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia already settling in your chest, a deep longing to immediately stretch this rare feeling of giddiness for as long as possible, to transform it into something palpable, something that could be proved as factual, so you hold tightly to your camera as you come back to the first floor.

The former partners are still in the same conversation in the corner, Kara lying in the long booth of the living room, head resting on her sister's lap as the woman and Vasquez chat animatedly.

Raising the device to your eye, you look through the viewfinder, positioning your finger over the shutter button. The song changes when you’re about to take the picture. Kara gapes, taking in an excited breath. Lucy does the same, face sharply turning to Alex, the singer’s eyes widening. You realize what is happening quickly enough to snap the photo as Alex hides her face behind her hands and her friends cheer.

( _C’mon baby, do the locomotion..._ )

“Oh my God, Al, you promised!” Kara stands up in a jump, pulling her sister’s arm.

“We'll even do it with you, please!” Lucy tries, standing in the free space.

Alex grudgingly stands too, stopping by her assistant’s side, Kara doing the same.

The trio tries some temptative steps to the rhythm, clearly trying to remember the current movement as well as the next, all at the same time.

“ _You gotta swing your hips, now_.” Kara sings along, the first to get looser with the song, Lucy following suit.

( _Come on, baby… Jump up... Jump back…_ )

“ _Well, now, I think you've got the knack.”_ They sing together, more in sync by each passing second, muscle memory kicking in.

What follows is something you can only describe as an awkward line dance, the three women half-assedly containing their jumps, taking into account that you are all still very much on a moving vehicle. By the end, they are breathless, half bent while leaning against each other in belly-deep laughter. It’s a precious kind of fraternal glee. You manage to capture that, too.

(You also desperately miss your sister.)

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

“Hey, how many questions do I have left?” Alex asks in a quiet moment, everyone apparently talked out of words. The sun hasn’t even set yet.

Frowning, you take a moment to understand.

“Shouldn’t you be keeping track of those?”

“Yeah, but I knew you would do it already.”

Truthfully, you had stopped putting a limit to her questions some time ago.

“Six, I think.” You say, regardless.

“Are you _sure_?” She teases.

“I can make it none.”

“Okay, okay.” Alex rolls her eyes playfully. “Quick fire?”

The group around you seems to half pay attention to your interaction. There’s enough contentment left in your belly for you to nod anyway. A fitting ending to over a month of drilling queries.

She regards you as she did before making that first question all those days ago.

“Favorite color?” Alex asks and that is not what you expected.

“Orange. Not the bright kind, but the soft, reddish one.” You say.

“Favorite book?”

“To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf.”

She smiles. “I love that book.”

“She was a spectacular writer.”

“Do you know her life-story?”

“Yes. It seems talent is always followed by pain, doesn’t it?”

Alex nods, her smile diminishing for a split second.

“First kiss?” She changes course sharply.

You take a beat to reply, gaze running around the room to see if anyone’s interest is peaked by the more profound question. All are still as they were.

“Fifteen. Her name was Sandy.”

Something shifts behind her eyes, a muscle by her eyebrow twitching briefly. She struggles to keep her smile and you wonder when you began to notice that.

“Favorite movie?” Alex carries on, clearing her throat.

“Lilo & Stitch.”

“Wait, what?” Kara stirs from what you’d assumed was a quiet nap. “That’s mine too!”

“Great minds, huh?”

“I knew I liked you.” She grins, settling back down.

Turning to your interrogator again, you wait.

“Who gave you that necklace?” Alex says delicately. Looking down, you notice you have your fingers around the pendant of said gold jewelry.

“My mother.” You provide, hoping it’s enough. She doesn’t press for more, so it pours out of your mouth naturally. “A present for mine and Alura’s sixteenth birthday. Hers had a sun engraved, mine had a moon.”

“Had?” She tilts her head slightly. You decide not to count it as the last question.

“It has almost completely rubbed off now.”

Alex nods slowly.

“One more left.”

“Yeah… Can I keep it for later?” She looks straight at you.

“Of course.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

The bus slowly comes to a stop in the small gas station, the 7/11 logo over the convenience store a true mark of how far capitalism can reach, nothing else in sight for miles and miles. Through the opposite window, the sight of the sun setting over the arid landscape takes your breath away. Perhaps the same urgent need that had made you rush to get your camera is what makes you bring said object as you step out of the vehicle.

You admire the view, hearing your travel companions chatting while making their way into the store, Jake warning that all must be back within twenty minutes. The driver connects the pump to the gas tank.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He comments a few feet from you.

“Gorgeous.” You agree.

The perfectly combined shades of orange, red and purple throw you years into the past, to those days after your college graduation when Alura had miraculously managed to get rid of your parents, Non and even Kezam.

“We’ve been talking about a road trip for ages. It was about time we took the plunge.” She’d said, hair swirling with the wind as she drove with the window half-open. A sky much like this had framed her, grin bright and optimistic, no oxygen tube to be seen, her cheeks plump and rosy once more.

It’d been the first time in a while that you’d seen Alura as truly herself. The first time you’d realized she was no longer sick, no longer dying. The bridge between you had widened, but you’d never felt more hopeful of a reconciliation than in those days.

You begin to notice her in the corners of your vision, happy and eager for the life that had once again been ahead of her. The giddiness you’ve felt this whole afternoon mixes with the bliss you’d felt with your sister that weekend, over a decade ago, before everything had come crashing down and the flaming hope for harmony within your family had been squashed.

Looking at this sunset, you can only recall soft and kind moments shared in solitude with someone you loved.

You miss your sister, yes, but you see her in the shades of orange created in this nation's sky.

Once again, you raise your camera, looking through the lens and seeing your country’s skyline. You take one picture, holding it between your index and middle fingers, getting ready to take another for precaution.

It is a sharp wake up call, Alex’s and Kara’s sudden appearance on your viewfinder, but they hug each other and pose, smiles wide and sincere.

“Joy always makes a portrait better, dear.” You hear Alura’s voice, so you don’t hesitate in pressing the shutter.

“Lemme see.” Kara jogs towards you, reaching for the photograph. “Oh.” She giggles, noticing it’s still developing.

“I bet it looks good, anyway.” Alex provides, peering over her own sister’s shoulder at the greyish square.

“Want me to take one of you?” Kara asks, kind blue eyes finding yours. It must be a family thing.

Without thinking, you nod, wishing you too had a sibling to hold.

Still, you move some feet forward, adjusting your wool sweater while walking. As you get ready, a gust of wind surges, pushing a few locks of hair over your face.

Something about it makes you smile at the proof that this day is real, that this is tangible, not only a pretty view. You are real and you have not felt this kind of glee, especially remembering Alura, in an extremely long while.

This is how Kara chooses to capture you. Hand half risen to pull your hair away, grin in place and eyes slightly squashed by your cheeks.

“Another one.” She calls.

You nod once more, hooking the rebelling locks behind your ear. You see something at the corner of your vision again, but it is real, now. Turning, you find Alex’s eyes.

You smile brighter.

She too.

Kara takes the picture.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Bliss never truly lasts.

You had once used this as a mantra.

Bliss is ever so evasive and it should not be trusted.

You should consider yourself lucky that you manage to hold on to it for the remainder of the day and the following night.

You should consider yourself blessed that you wake up in a good mood, the previous day not a figment of your imagination. It truly is a wonderful deed, to be allowed breakfast in such a mood. To be allowed to reach the hotel, get the keys to your room, say goodbye to the band as they head for the venue.

Bliss never truly lasts, though.

You are reminded of your old mantra as you turn towards the elevator and there, waiting in one of the reception armchairs, sits your editor.

“Cat?” You frown. By the way her jaw is set, you understand that your moments of care-free joy are over.

“Hi.”

“Why are you here?”

She sighs, looks at the stone floor for a second.

“We need to talk.” Cat says plainly.

At the months that follow, you will hold on to those photographs like a lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone is curious, this is the choreography I refer to: https://www. youtube .com/watch?v=at51fppmyHU&ab_channel=KylieMinogueH. shout out to the absolute _insanity _that were the 80s.__
> 
> _  
> _I hope you enjoyed the chapter and, as always, your comments are very much appreciated._  
> _


	8. eight.

What baffles you is not what she says. You accept her words as true the second they are spoken. Cat is the most honest person you have ever met, even more so than your own parents. You trust her wholeheartedly. Not only that, what she says makes complete sense. It is logical and comprehensible. What causes you to be silent, what makes you utterly tired and defeated is the realization that you hadn’t noticed this for yourself.

“I saw him a couple of weeks ago at a restaurant. That one I like, you know? Il Palazzo?”

You nod. It’s an expensive restaurant, your brain supplies.

“I thought I caught a glimpse of him coming in when I was sitting down, but when I turned to look, I didn’t see him again.” Cat carries on. She sounds strange. “I went to the restroom at one point and when I came out, his table was right there in the middle of the room. They were holding hands.” She sighs, trying to meet your eyes. You comply.

“Did you confront him?”

“Of course. He tried to avoid the subject, as usual, but that is not really possible with me, as we both know.” She scoffs. You remain still. “He got angry, as men caught lying usually do. He said… a lot. I told him he had to talk to you, or I would, and gave him two weeks. He didn’t pick up my phone calls, so I went to check on him.”

Cat hesitates.

“And?” You press, crossing your arms.

“ _ She _ answered the door.”

It’s not hard for you to imagine the scene, to imagine someone who isn’t you opening the door to your apartment, even if the woman is nothing but a nondescript figure in your mind.

You feel frozen, leaning against the hotel room’s dresser, suitcases laying neatly on top of the bed. Perhaps the woman has brought things of her own to your place and your husband hides them from view, or maybe he leaves them in plain sight, knowing you would never notice.

Logically, you’re aware you should be overwhelmed with anger, with betrayal and sadness. Logically, you’re aware you should want to confront him and hate his lover, hate the woman he has chosen over you. Rather than that, you are disappointed.

At yourself, at the person your husband has proven himself not to be, at the clarity that quickly dawns in you.

“You came all this way only to tell me this?”

“I couldn’t very well say this over the phone, Astra.”

It’s easier to nod than it is to maintain eye contact.

“I need to-” You breathe, the room suddenly feeling too small. “I need...air.”

“There’s a lovely park down the street. We can-”

“No. No, I need  _ space _ . Alone.” You say sharply, standing and trying to find your purse. Not seeing it anywhere, you pad your hip and feel its weight against you. Touching the black fabric is weirdly grounding. “I’m sorry.” You sigh. “I don't mean to snap or leave you alone when you’ve come so far, but-”

“Astra,” she steps forward, sounding somber, yet sympathetic, “whichever way you want to deal with this is completely fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Right.” You whisper.

The second your feet hit the pavement and the sun shines on your skin, the frost within begins giving place to something else.

Mindlessly walking, the conscious part of your brain is grateful the hotel is located on such a commercial street. People go by in different paces, all engrossed in their own lives, some with cell phones glued to their ears, others in low conversations with someone by their side, a handful even have ghosts of frowns indicating their loss in their own thoughts.

Your proposal happened on a day much like this, if you were to think about it.

On the hunt for a reasonably priced stove for the apartment, you and Non had been like the second group of people, discussing the merits of something inconsequential, the glee of freedom and new beginnings still clouding both of your judgements, when you’d come across a second-hand store that also sold electric appliances. Browsing, a ring had caught your attention behind the glass table. It was simple, really. Made out of gold, three interlaced strands molden together, creating a smooth, braided surface.

In retrospective, you’d probably looked at it for longer than you registered. Non had encountered you there, admiring the showcase. He’d led you to the stove he’d found and you hadn’t thought more of the ring. He’d been on edge afterwards. You remember losing him between the seemingly unending aisles. When you’d finally found him again, he’d already been to the register.

Exiting the store, you’d continued walking, much like you do now, and he’d been a step behind you. It wasn’t until you’d come across a fountain that he’d tugged on your arm lightly.

You can still feel it now, nine years later, how your heart had sunk as he’d lowered himself to one knee in front of complete strangers. His gaze had been on yours, his eyes pleading before he’d even spoken and if your husband is composed in everything he does, he’d absolutely known what he was doing.

He’d spoken in Kryptonese. Words of love and devotion, citing your escape from your country, citing how you’d both fought against the system together, had both seen the police’s unfairness on that protest, both carried the scars of that night and were undoubtedly bound because of that. He’d let a few tears slide down his cheeks and, as the crowd had begun to gather around you, all you felt was embarrassment and pity.

But Non had been your partner for five years at that point. He had also been right: you did go through it all together, his shoulder never wavering whenever you needed it. He was good to you, understood your drive more than most and, most of all, Non was stable.

(“He’s harmless,” Alura had said when you were still teenagers. “The safest choice you could make, but I have never known you to go for surety.”)

Non was the only thing you had left.

So, with dread in your stomach, you had nodded. He’d smiled, stood in a jump, taking you up in his arms as he did. The strangers around you had cheered. You had been mortified and pushed every bit of that feeling down.

You didn’t realize until later, when he’d fished a jewelry box from his pocket, that he’d bought the wrong ring. Staring at you from the small velvety box was the piece of jewelry which was once right next to the one that’d caught your eye. Unlike the simple, small ring you’d seen, this one had an oval bridge, its centerstone prominent and iridescent, details in white gold adorning it.

You’ve spent the last nine years getting your hand caught in innocuous clothing and on random objects because of the obnoxious thing.

Now, somewhere in a street in Downtown Phoenix, you come to a slow stop in front of a jewelry store. There, behind a display window, as if a play of faith, sits a ring much like the one you’d first seen, but in silver. The one on your finger, however, feels heavy.

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

_ “I have some money put aside _ , _ ” You say, too drained to keep this a secret any longer. “Enough for plane tickets to the US and a few days in a hotel. Kezom said his friend can get us jobs.” _

_ “Okay.” Non places his hand on your shoulder when you eagerly lean forward, closer to him. He looks worried, but that’s not what you need. _

_ “There’s no future for us here, you said so yourself.” _

_ “That doesn’t mean we have to move  _ continents _ , Astra.” _

_ “Why not? We’ve talked about it before.” _

_ “Because our families are here.” He tilts his head slightly, talking as if you’re a toddler and it irks you. Ignites the anger you’ve just managed to calm down minutes ago. _

_ “And since when have they come into consideration for our decisions? We have spent the last four years trying to break away from their grasps. We can, now. We’ve both graduated, we’ve both completed our duties.” _

_ “We must still enlist.” _

_ “We could choose not to.” You lean away from his touch again. He’s weak. You feel betrayal settling in your chest once more, as if Alura’s treason hadn’t been enough. _

_ (Her apologies still ring clear in your ears. _

_ “What was I supposed to do? Let you be sent to prison? Astra, Father would have died! If not of disappointment, then of shame!”) _

_ “Do you really want to leave everything? Our culture, our country, our  _ language? _ ” Non frowns. _

_ “We live in a place that chooses violence against people protesting for clearer energy, protesting for our rights not to depend on dangerous substances to survive. I’m ashamed to be here. I’m ashamed to call myself a citizen of a place like that.” _

_ “Do not give me the speech.” Non caresses your cheek, still damp with the angry tears you’d cried over what happened earlier. “I know all the lines.” _

_ “I cannot live here anymore and at this moment, you are the only person who remotely understands why, so I'm asking you to come with me.” _

_ “Is that the only reason you want me to come?” He stares into your eyes, jaw set, voice smooth. _

_ “You and I are all we have after tonight. Perhaps we can become each other’s family.” Is all that you manage to say. _

_ He nods and kisses you. _

_ You close your eyes before his face is even close enough to touch. _

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

_ “Do you think you will ever give my poor friend a real chance, Astra?” Kezom asks, arm around Alura’s waist. She leans heavily into him, her oxygen tank parked by her side. _

_ Non is thankfully already out of earshot. _

_ “I don’t know what you mean.” You grumble. _

_ “You are too intelligent not to.” _

_ “Kez, be nice.” Alura warns, sending you an apologetic look. _

_ “What isn’t nice is keeping someone at arm's length without a clear reason.” _

_ “I am really not in the mood for this.” Sighing, you take a swig from your beer, still unused to the taste. _

_ “Listen, you know, I know, Alura knows and he knows that he likes you. You two are constantly together, in both havoc and mundane tasks. Non and I have been friends for a very long time. He won’t move ahead or move back without a clear signal from you. What I would like to know is why you won't give either.” _

_ You manage to hold down the words which jump to the top of your tongue. _

_ “He’s not completely wrong, S.” Alura mumbles after a few seconds. It forces you to release your hold. _

_ “Do you really wish to know?” _

_ “Astra…” She warns because of your tone, tired. _

_ “No, if your boyfriend wishes to know why this cannot be considered a double date, Sister, and you think he truly is correct, then know he shall.” You place your empty bottle on a nearby table. “First and foremost, Kezom, you seem to have forgotten that Alura has not been doing so well lately.” _

_ They both tense immediately. People’s desperate need to ignore the obvious will never cease to amaze you. _

_ “She’s my main priority. I don’t have the will or the space to really think about anything else besides her recovery and my cause. Secondly, though your dear friend has indeed been great company to me in the past few years, not everyone in our circle thinks he and I are well suited-” _

_ “That is unfair.” Alura interrupts. _

_ “He is too safe, isn’t he, Sister? And goodness knows I am too radical and… what is it Mother said?  _ Squeamish, _ that’s it. Too radical and squeamish to really make anything truly last.” _

_ They are silent for a few instants. At least Alura seems more alert. Small victories in unforeseeable situations, you guess. _

_ “I still cannot see how that is Non’s fault.” Kezom sighs. _

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

When you quit smoking, you quit drinking. A small dose every once in a while is all you really accept, all you really enjoy, but when Cat offered some whiskey, the burn had seemed enough to melt the frozen state you were still in.

It’s your third serving, now, and your head buzzes.

“I always thought he was more in love with me than I was with him. Isn’t it ironic that he is the one who left?”

“He hasn’t left.” Cat stretches her legs over the comforter, back against the headboard of the bed. “I think he would be perfectly happy to carry on with both of you. And he’s still clearly in love with you.”

You don’t know what to reply, so you sip your drink instead, seeing your wedding band through the glass.

“May I ask something, since we’re on the subject?” She tentatively says.

“Go on.” Leaning your head on the wall, your neck creaks, a souvenir of sleeping on a tour bus for the past month and a half. It’s almost amusing, how the room still swings lightly now, even though you’re finally in a solid building.

“Why are you with him? If you don’t love him?”

“I never said that.”

“You-”

“He’s  _ more _ in love with me. That is a fact and we both have always been aware of it.” You frown, “I think. But I do love him.”

Closing your eyes, you more or less melt into the mattress. If you’re still enough, there’s a faint sound in the back of your mind. His shuffles in the bathroom, getting ready to sleep, you already tucked in, body not completely rested until the minuscule shift of the bed as he slips under the covers.

“I never had nightmares when I was young, have I told you that?” You continue. Cat’s low  _ no _ signals for you to carry on. “Simply slept right through the night. My mother used to say it was the only point of the day when I didn’t give her trouble. I only began having them once Alura fell ill. I dreamt of her dying, or coughing up blood, or wasting away in a hospital ward, but they faded once she was cured. When Non and I moved here, they started again. Sometimes it was about being afire, or drowning, even free falling. Most often than not, though, they were about the night of my arrest and the subsequent fight with Alura. They were like losing her, losing my family all over again.” Eyes still closed, you take another sip of whiskey.

“Non would wake up too, no matter how quiet I was. Without a fault, he would sense them and he would…” Your voice catches. That does surprise you. “Hold me. He would hold me and not ask any questions. I never wished to be held before, but with Non… I felt like it was safe. He was safe.”

“He’s been a comfort.” Cat shifts beside you.

“He’s been a constant.” You sigh.

“You should talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“You two have gone through a lot, and though I would still like to rip him a new one for what he’s done, maybe you can salvage your marriage.”

“Maybe.”

“I mean, people manage to get through affairs all the time.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Astra.”

The call of your name forces your eyes open.

“Do you want to save your marriage?”

You hide behind your eyelids again, but the room still spins softly.

“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” You mumble.

“Not my type, but I can see it.” She follows along.

“He’s also smart, talented, has been by my side for over a decade now.”

“That’s true.”

“I would be a fool not to try and keep him around.”

“On paper, maybe.”

The next sentence forms on your tongue easily, has been shapelessly swirling around your mind since she told you the news this morning.

“The thing is,” you swallow, “I’m not exactly sure I’m willing to make the effort.” You push each syllable out, heart beating fast. “Does that make me a terrible person?”

“No,” your friend says without hesitation. “It just points out that his cheating is not the only problem.”

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

She smiles brightly as soon as you enter the dressing room. For some strange reason, she’s alone, standing by a small table filled with what looks to be letters.

“Morning.” Alex nods.

You manage to repeat the word.

“They always go a little overboard.” She says fondly, moving the paper she holds so you can glimpse at the content. There are multiple drawings, undoubtedly from a child, with glitter and sequins glued to the borders. You identify a crayon-written message on the upper corner, watching as her eyes go over it. “And I love them for it.”

You wait.

A second later, she puts the paper down and hesitates before turning away from you and towards her vanity. Alex moves a couple of things around, glances at you through the mirror.

“So, uhm, I’ve been thinking and we really should do something to celebrate before you go. There’s this little place in Denver we usually hit up when we’re in town and Luce said that’s the last city you’ll be in, so I thought it could be nice, you know, to go there and eat in a proper restaurant for once. Eating in the bus is great and all, but doesn’t really compare to traditional chinese food.” Alex stops to breathe. She glances at you again, but holds your gaze this time. “That is, if you like chinese food. We can always get something else, too.”

Fondness washes over you with each word she spills. Along with it, guilt tinges every second.

“It’d be my treat, of course.” She chuckles, uncomfortable at your silence.

Hanging onto your purse’s strap for dear life, the phrases swirling around your mind, the ones you thought of all the way here this morning, seem to move further and further away from your grasp.

“It’s stupid, sorry. Forget I asked.” Alex seems to see something in your eyes.

“It’s not stupid.” You sigh. “And I would love to.”

You would. You would love nothing more than to stay here, with this traveling band of people who make you laugh and are so earnestly at ease with each other; this group that so easily took you into their midst without a second thought. With this woman who you’ve spent every day alongside and has kept you away in endless stories of heartache, growth and devotion to her artistry. You would love nothing more than to stay here, safe, sheltered from real life.

Alex smiles once again, wholly and honestly.

“But I can’t.” You say. Her smile fades. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you in Denver.”

“Oh.” It falls from her lips automatically and she sounds disappointed.“Why?”

“Uhm-” There’s nothing to really swallow, but you do it even so, trying to get past the lump in your throat. “I- I have something to sort out.”

“How do you mean?” Alex crosses her arms, frowns.

Closing your eyes, you breathe deeply, trying to conjure your true professional self back into place. There’s no reason to dwell on this, on the desperate wish that suddenly materializes in your chest to stay, ignited by the simple thought of leaving, even if you only have a few days left. There’s no reason to dwell on this because you  _ are _ leaving. You  _ are _ putting your marriage first because that is what normal people do. That is what Non deserves, even if he shouldn’t deserve anything at all.

“Some personal things happened.” You push out, meeting her gaze once more. “Back home- Back in  _ National City _ and I need to return earlier than planned.”

“Are you okay?” Alex uncrosses her arms, frown disappearing. She steps forward, disappointment replaced with worry in one second. Your eyes sting.

“No.” The word escapes you and you bite your lip almost as a punishment. “But that does not matter. I know this is incredibly last minute and the hotel reservations have probably already been made, so-”

“Astra, don’t wo-”

“I understand if you have to charge those out of pocket. I can leave Lucy a check, if that is all right.”

“You don’t have to.” She sighs. You think she is considering asking precisely what happened, but she looks down. “When do you go?”

“My flight is in two hours.”

“So now, then.” Alex nods once. “Okay….” She takes yet another step towards you, and the confusion and worry melts into kindness. “I meant to say this Friday, but I guess it can’t wait til then anymore, uh?”

Whatever it is, you wish she would keep it to herself.

“Thank you.” Alex looks straight into your eyes. “We’ve been wanting to get this book out for a while, but it sounded scary.” She chuckles and the muscle beating inside your chest squeezes tightly. “You made it easier, even if you did make it a bit scarier before we actually began.”

She smiles brightly again. You manage a small pull of your lips.

“So yeah, thank you. For not judging and for making me rethink  _ a lot _ of what I’ve been through.” Hesitating for a moment, she places a hand on your upper arm. “And if you ever need  _ anything, _ well… you have my email.” A pause. “And I’ll make sure you have my phone number too.”

You nod, not knowing what to say.

There’s no use dwelling on this. Still, your professional self refuses to come back. All you see is Alex, kind and brave and funny. All you see is someone you’d like to continue getting lost in, whatever that means.

A short silence follows, you’re both standing still, but her touch on your arm makes you lean forward. Her palm slides to your back and you wrap your free arm around her waist.

It’s a loose embrace, something slightly awkward, if you really think about it, but both your hands are firm against each other. You realize for the first time that she smells of lilacs.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. Sorry for leaving, sorry for hugging her and especially sorry for letting go as abruptly as you do. Turning away at once, you quickly walk down the hallway, not looking back.

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

He’s not home when you get in, and the sight of your empty apartment is sobering. There is nothing essentially different, nothing new or out of place. It is still the same place you’d bought all those years ago with the money from your first book advancement. It simply feels cold, now, which maybe it always has.

Someplace to sleep, someplace to cook and eat and watch political dramas on the rare occasions you were both in the same room at the same time.

You tentatively take a step towards your bedroom and that makes you angry. This is  _ your _ place.  _ Your _ cold, effective apartment. Regardless of what happened, no one gets to take this piece of security from you.

With sure movements, your bag is undone and clothes put into the washer.

By the time keys sound in the lock, everything you’d taken on the trip is put away in its old place. The one new thing, the only addition to the space, perhaps as a perfect token, is the pile made by the three notebooks you filled in your time away.

He walks in as if it’s any other day, places his wallet and keys on the side table by the door, his coat on the hanger and a gift bag beside it. You wonder who that is for.

Turning towards the living room, he flinches at seeing you there.

“You’re back.”

“So I am.”

“That’s a nice surprise.” He seems to gather himself, walking in your direction and kissing your cheek. “You could have told me you were coming earlier, I would have picked you up at the airport.”

Non gives you one of his infamous side grins.

So this is how he will act, then. Controlled, charming, sure of himself. Nothing new, truly, but you are tired.

“I wasn’t planning to, but once Cat came to see me, I had no other choice.” You stand from the couch. Something crosses his eyes.

“She did do it after all, then?”

“Has Cat ever said something she didn’t mean?”

“She never seemed too interested in me either, so I figured-”

“You figured you would keep the façade.”

He chuckles, looks at you with an incredulous expression before reverting back to the kitchen and pulling a beer from the refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” You ask, still standing in your living room.

“Would you like one?”

“What I would like is for us to have a conversation about what happened.”

“And what should I say?” Non leans against the counter, opening the bottle and taking a swig. In the years of you knowing him, he’s never looked like a pretentious man the way he does now. Confident, boisterous, cocky. It stirs something deep, deep in your belly you haven’t felt for years.

“Non-”

“She was here. While you were gone. I was lonely and let myself go.” 

“So it only just started?” You tilt your head.

He looks away. Shrugs.

“How long?” You sigh.

“It was a mistake.” He changes tactics deliberately. Abandons his drink and his manly posture, comes at you fast, eyes begging. “It was a mistake.”

Raising his hands, he tries to frame your face. You lean away.

“How long?” You ask again.

“Not long.”

“Non.”

“She was here and I missed you.”

“Stop!” Finally, you snap. A mixture of anger and astonishment swirls in his expression at your tone. “Stop lying to me, stop dodging the subject. How long have you been with her?” With hands on your hips, you stand your ground.

“A few years.” He sighs, stepping away.

There’s no more frost within you. No more tetherless emotions. What he stirs inside of you, what you haven’t felt in a very long time, is anger. An old friend, your old fuel.

“We need to talk.” Non concludes.

“Obviously.” You chuckle.

As you reclaim your place on the couch, he takes the armchair.

Finally.

~~_ lovelovelove _ ~~

“The moment I first saw you, I thought to myself ‘I am going to marry that girl. You were beautiful and strange and not over the top like the other girls, which I always liked. When we started talking, when  _ you _ approached  _ me _ and we started to sit together, I was ecstatic that you were also interesting. And smart.”

“What is this, our vows?”

“This is how someone who is in love usually speaks about meeting their spouse.”

“So you are still in love with me, is that what you are trying to say?”

“I have always been in love with you. I adore you  _ and _ admire you, but-”

“She was more available.”

“But I am beyond tired! I have waited for you to love me back, for you to be passionate about  _ me _ . You were passionate about the environment, about your studies, about Alura’s recovery, about clean energy, about escaping your parents’ control, about  _ having _ to move away and finally, finally about being an author. Not once were you ever inclined to be passionate about us.”

“I have never been someone who’d place all my worth in a relationship, Non. I thought you were aware of that.”

“That is not the point.”

“What, pray tell, is it, then?”

“The point is that you have a fire inside of you which burns bright every time you are near one of your interests and it has never burned for me.”

“Why didn’t you just leave? If you are so convinced I do not feel anything for you?”

“I thought you needed time. I thought you would settle and you would realize how deeply I love you. How much our life together is worth, how we fit together nicely.”

“So how come you have had an affair for years, dear?”

“Because I was tired of waiting! Because I gave you time and you settled, but you still didn’t look at me any differently.”

“Non, if you’d just talked to me-”

“I needed to feel something more! I needed to discover someone new, I needed to know that I wasn’t the problem! I needed to get lost in someone who cared, someone who wanted to get lost in  _ me _ . I needed a spark, Astra, I needed more than the scraps you’ve been giving me for the past fifteen years!”

He stands, one hand pointing down, face red and eyes moist.

This is the first time you have seen this man lose control, lose his hold over his words.

You feel as tears of your own begin to form.

It is quite simple, in the end.

All the little things that have chipped away at you, all the things you have wished he were not, all the behaviours he so exhaustedly kept, were for you.

He made himself like this, waringly stoic, wearingly controlled, as not to disrupt you, as not to irk you. He has been biting his tongue and biding his time, waiting for you to fall for him.

“Does she love you?”

His shoulders drop, his hand relaxes. He looks at you, incredulous.

“Why does that matter?” He sighs.

“If you decided to jeopardize our marriage to search for something  _ truer _ , then it matters if you’ve found it.”

Non flinches at the words, breath catching, as if you’d delivered a physical blow. It’s almost comical, really, considering that this time, your question was pure of intent.

“Does she?” You insist.

“I think so, yes. But Astra, please, this doesn’t have to be the end-”

“Do you love her?”

“What?”

“Do you love her too?”

He blinks and his tears fall.

Oh.

Oh, how stupid you have been.

How blind you have been.

How selfish both of you are.

“I’m sorry.” He takes a few steps towards you. Unlike the previous time he’s done this, he no longer seems frantic, haste. He just seems pitiful. Regretful. Frightened. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to betray you. You have to believe me when I say I will end it. I was simply tired, Astra. And lonely. So lonely. But we can try to work on this, we can go to a counselor, we can date more, we can travel.”

Non lays his hands on your waist, hugs you to him before you have a chance to react. He holds you and continues to murmur pitiful words.

All your senses are overwhelmed by familiarity. His cologne, his warmth, the shave of his beard lightly brushing your cheek, the size of his hands, covering half of your back without much strain. This is the hold you have known for over a decade now. All the comfort you expected to have.

You feel detached.

He pulls away enough to look into your eyes, brow furrowed, tear tracks on his cheeks, desperation etched on every inch of his face.

Leaning closer, he kisses you. Without a second thought, you kiss him back with all your might, willing yourself, pleading with any God that might exist, to feel anything. Feel despair at the thought of losing him. Of losing him, Non; him, the person, the man with all his flaws and passions and doubts. Him. The man who moved continents with you, for you. Him. You will yourself to feel him and feel excitement at his touch, despair at his possible departure.

You feel lips against your own and hands on your back.

This is the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen, I know very well that no one's here for the straight coupling, BUT this is the last we'll see of him, so....
> 
> as usual, your comments are always welcome.


	9. nine.

Waking up has been your least favorite part of the day lately. Not that you actually crave sleep, the amount of tasks to complete too great to waste time with such a thing, but you despise waking up even more.

There is a place, right between full sleep and complete consciousness, where you forget where you are. Where the soft sheets over you are tetherlessly comfortable and the mattress supporting your body could very well be rocking gently to the movement of a bus. It is the drastic fall from such a place, the rude tethering to the same bedroom you have been inhabiting for years and years which makes you hate waking up.

Still, you inevitably do, just like you inevitably stand from your bed, make breakfast and pore over the pages of the book yet to be revised.

Your most favorite company as of the last month has been your laptop. Unlike your editor or your soon-to-be ex-husband, it does not ask anything of you. It is there, passively waiting to respond to your every command, inhumanly awaiting to register your every typed word.

Focusing on your book is easier than the divorce papers or the moving boxes. You lose yourself in Alexandra Danvers, her quirks and tastes and traumas and secrets as clear as if you were still on tour. Writing about her takes you away from the apartment, away from National City and its lonely concrete buildings. It transports you to never changing dressing rooms and rural Midvale. To soundchecks and red brick farmhouses.

You end up writing a hundred extra pages.

You have conference calls to agree on the details.

Alex's voice is crisp and short whenever you direct a comment at her. It doesn't particularly surprise you, what with the five or six emails with her sender ID currently sitting in your inbox.

Getting lost in your previously thought impressions of her is far less daunting than the woman herself. If you were to think of her, a real person with an easy smile and kind eyes, you might think about how you left her with a hug, desperately wishing to stay, while you sent your husband away with tears in his eyes and a fierce wish for him to go.

Cat checks in once or twice a week, ever so patient as long as she knows you are doing your job. She is a strong friend, but deadlines are deadlines and she didn't build one of the biggest publishing houses this side of the Atlantic by showing leniency.

Nevertheless, she vowed you could handle this – this being the end of your relationship – however you wanted.

The fact you don't exactly know what you want has seemingly eluded you both.

You have been in a standstill. Why should you rebel? Why should you cry or yell or revolt?

You have been with someone for about half of your life and have now realized that, in all these years, the only thing you ever loved about him was his steady determination to love you.

Hopeless, really.

So there is no reason to rebel.

Or, rather, no motivation. No amount of rage or despair will fix something that should never have happened to begin with.

You have stopped swimming a long time ago, you know. The current is now the only thing responsible for your progress, whatever that means.

You do everything on time. You finish the book, which is eloquent and poetic, and submit the first draft. Cat shows up at your door the following night.

Her face is impatient, and as she looks around your apartment, the frown on her face only increases.

"This is not working anymore." She says.

"Excuse me?"

"This. This stillness you have going on."

"I don’t understand."

"Listen, I am all for pushing your feelings down and getting on with things, but _only_ if you're finding an escape valve in the meantime." Cat takes off her coat, draping it over the back of your couch with more force than necessary.

"Catherine-" You force yourself to smirk, to escape her candor. She shuts you down.

"I thought this would be it." She motions to a package you just now realize she’s holding. By the looks of it, it’s probably your book.

"It has."

"It has been an escape, sure, but it has not been a valve. You're not _actually_ putting anything into it. I have revised your work until I can almost hear your voice in my head, Astra, but everything you've written since that shitbag left has zero intent. Zero personality. You wrote plenty, but you didn't write like yourself."

"What should I do to improve, then?" Crossing your arms, you mean your writing and both of you know it.

"Find yourself, for fuck's sake. Find your voice and your strength, and whatever else you need to start fighting again."

"What happened to _'however you want to handle this'_?"

"It went to shit when you stopped deciding how to handle it and began going with the flow." She sighs, dropping the package on the couch and placing her hands on her hips. She’s determined. "I can drink with you, go on a shopping spree and I'm not even opposed to setting his things on fire. You just need to figure out what to do to get back on track."

Your flannel shirt suddenly feels too thin, too exposing. For some reason, you feel exhausted.

“Well?” Cat sharpens her voice, impatient. “Chop chop, dear, I do have other authors to get to.”

You really do hate waking up, even, as you have just found out, figuratively.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

When you left Krypton, it was simple. You grabbed two bags worth of clothing and personal belongings, left a note addressed to your sister and hopped on a plane in the middle of the night.

Still living with your parents at the age of twenty-three, you had few things to your own name. Now, as you take into account every single thing you’d actually acquired for yourself, it surprises you slightly.

“This is definitely going into the donation pile, correct?” Cat turns from your wardrobe with a dark-purple office suit jacket, overly long and overly shoulder-padded.

Truthfully, you can’t remember wearing it more than once or twice, but seeing the garment, as a memory pulled from the depths of your brain, makes a small smile appear on your lips.

“Do you know when I wore that?” Crossing the room, you reach a tentative hand towards the heavy fabric.

“No idea, but I doubt you should have ever worn it to begin with.”

“As if you didn’t have one much the same only a few years ago.”

“More like a decade.” She mumbles, letting go of the hanger and padding barefoot towards her glass of wine.

The jacket falls flimsily down on your hands, the polyester warm and sturdy.

You choose not to bite back.

“I bought this for my first book-signing event.”

Cat squints behind her glass, taking a long drink and a long look at the piece of clothing you hold. She nods slowly.

“And you paired it with a dress or a skirt of the same colour, right?”

“Yes.” You nod, taking the edge of the hanger to be able to unbutton the jacket. Sure enough, it pulls away to reveal a folded dress inside.

“Yeah, that I remember. One of the few times I’ve ever seen you wearing something other than pants.”

Humming as an answer, you divert back to the set. Sheer happiness screams at you from the bright colour, even with the questionable smell coming off of it after being stored for so long.

It reminds you of a time where your dreams were somehow coming true, when the overwhelming sense of individuality flooded your senses and every glimpse you took of the cover of your very first publication sent shivers down your spine.

All the hurt, all the ideas of unfairness, all the longing for your family had slipped to the back of your conscience.

The reins of your own life had finally been in your hands and their weight had felt unbelievably good.

“So you’re keeping it?” Cat’s voice is louder than your thoughts.

“No.” You sigh, placing it on the left pile on the bed.

She regards you again, equal parts curious and suspicious. Shrugging, she walks back to the wardrobe.

Three more pieces of clothing are sorted before you manage to speak what’s on your mind.

“After I came back from promoting the book, Non... was intensely hovering for a few days, almost like he was afraid I wouldn’t return. He informed me it was torture for him, that he hadn’t come to this country to be alone. He asked me not to do it again, not to leave for so long again, so I didn’t.” You touch the mixture of textures in the piles, focusing your eyes on the density of the threads.

“Until two months ago.” Cat states, understanding.

“Until two months ago.” You nod.

“Well, with this book, I’ll make sure we get you to every coast. God knows there’s enough interest already.”

“I suppose it’s possible, now that I don’t have anything waiting for me back home.”

 _Home_.

The word sounds strange. Foreign, even. This apartment, these solid walls painted in your own decisions, guarding the memories of so many of your years, don’t seem like home to you. They seem, like most places you’ve ever been in, just like a long-term shelter.

“Listen, if me being elbow-deep in synthetic fabric isn’t proof enough, let me make something perfectly clear: _you_ are _not_ alone and your divorce will not change that.”

You want to agree, to repay her assurance. You manage a grimace.

“And anyway, who the fuck needs men? Robert leaving was a punch in the gut for me, of course, but besides Carter, that was the only decent thing he ever did. And honestly? Having an entire bed for yourself feels incredible.”

That does make you smile again.

She continues exposing garment after garment and tossing them onto their newly designated pile. You focus on the task at hand. Each discarded item lifts one feather clogging your brain. By the end, as you put the clothing into boxes, you can think slightly clearer.

“Speaking of the book,” Cat sighs heavily as she leans against the empty and closed wardrobe, “have you talked to your _subject_ lately?”

“Not since returning, why do you ask?”

Thankfully, your back is to her as you update your moving list, writing down the boxes' numbers and the content within.

“Well, you know her better than I do and she has sounded… different in our phone meetings. I was just wondering if you knew of anything that might have happened.”

“No, not really.”

“We could really use an easy promo-leg for this one. We have enough comparisons with Max.”

“I do not know if anything happened on the tour.” You turn. Cat arches an eyebrow. “But I think perhaps she is angry at me.”

“And why would that be?” Her posture changes, the sharpness she usually reserves for her business persona surfacing.

“There are a couple of emails I forgot to answer.”

“By a couple you mean….?”

“Some.”

“You are aware another memoir published with animosity is _not_ ideal, right? Max didn’t cause too much damage because he is _very_ unlikable. Alex Danvers is adored.”

“This is not the same.”

“Please enlighten me as to how.”

“To start with, I actually enjoy her company, which is far more than I could ever say about Maxwell Lord.”

“It’s more than you say about most people.” She arches an eyebrow, curious again.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Cat chooses her words carefully.

“Your relationship with her is fundamental to the success of this book. You should maintain it.”

“I am not trying to jeopardize it.”

“What, then?”

“I am trying to put some distance between us.” She looks confused, so you search your mind for what to say. “Alex and I became closer than I am comfortable with, so, at this point, I simply need to rebuild our boundaries.”

“You are very good at doing that,” Cat grants, her posture softening, “so much so that you have not let one person break those boundaries since I’ve known you.”

 _Until two months ago_ , it goes unsaid, but glaringly clear.

Closing the subject, as she so often does, your editor moves towards your vanity, still unpacked.

“Please don’t ruin this project, Astra.”

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Perhaps the Danvers sisters are cosmically bound to end your days of stillness. This time, the responsible one of the two is the younger of the duo.

Non had taken the DVD player with him, claiming he’d been the one to pay for it and most of your DVD collection.

There hadn’t been enough reason to rebel, so you hadn’t.

Now, established in your new apartment and with the pages due to be rewritten glaring from behind your computer screen, you wish for nothing more than the distraction of a film.

You’d walked down to the electronics store two blocks away from your building, which conveniently was immediately across a Blockbuster.

The fluorescent lights, rows of white shelves and absurd amount of snacks for sale makes you look over the counter, nearly expecting to find a pink-haired teenager with a Duran-Duran t-shirt standing there, chewing gum and seeming utterly bored.

Sandy isn’t there, of course.

You wonder where she is today and if she still likes Rock bands.

Skipping over the romantic titles, you have a very clear idea of the movie you’d like to watch today.

A kid almost knocks into your moving legs, laughter loud and sharp. Her pigtails, dark brown and curly, bounce slightly with the pounding of her feet against the floor, hands tightly holding two DVD cases. An exasperated and exhausted mother follows, trying to hold back a smirk as she calls for the child to wait.

You hadn’t thought of that in a very, very long time. Of kids, that is. Of a family bigger than you and one other adult.

Non didn’t have the patience and you, the time.

Shaking your head and the thought away, you continue on your task, stopping when you reach the section you desire.

Your eyes make quick work, going through title after title. A few catch your attention, your fingers pulling the cases out of the row in order to read the description on the backs. You keep hold of one, figuring you could give a chance to the third instalment of The Lion King.

Moving from the first shelving unit, however, you try to be aware of the people around you, another parent-kid duo behind you and another person to your left, looking at the same unit you are now running your eyes through.

“Here.” You sigh, reaching for the title you wanted.

Your hand collides with someone else’s, a soft _sorry!_ escaping the woman.

Both of you retract your hands at once, raising your gazes and meeting each other’s.

“Excuse-”

“Astra!” The woman smiles, frown already melting away by the time you even register her face.

“Kara?”

“I can’t believe we actually ran into each other! I thought about emailing you, but Al said you’re on the final stretch of the book, so I decided it was better not to bother you. Wait, if you’re here, does that mean that the book is finished? Oh my-”

“Kara.” You rest a hand on her wrist, seeing as her tendency to gesticulate while speaking had her arms bent. She stops talking at the touch, blushing with the realization of her babbling. “Why are you in town? I thought the tour was meant to be headed to Alaska now.”

“Oh, it is. They are. I, uhm, I was only staying for a couple of weeks, remember?”

You nod. In the midst of everything, the detail had escaped you.

“I just moved here, actually. Got a new job with Perry White, do you know him?”

“CEO of my publishing house’s direct competitor? Yes, I do know him.” You smirk. She continues to blush.

“I’d already submitted my résumé when Al told me she’d signed with Grant Books.”

“Fair enough.”

“Yeah. So I wanted to relax a little bit tonight, you know? Eve, this girl from the office, recommended this place.”

“I’ve never been myself.”

“Seems well stocked enough, though they only have one copy of Stitch.” She sighs, touching the tip of her finger to the cover in question.

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Were you going to take that one? Or just browsing?” Kara has begging eyes and slumped shoulders. You notice now, finally being able to see past her waves of words, that her light, once so overwhelmingly bright, seems dimmer.

“It was what I came in after, actually.”

“Oh, of course.” She gives you a curt nod, smirk still firmly in place, but a trace of disappointment lingering behind. “It is your favorite, after all.”

“Uhm…. yes.” You take the case, turn it over in your hands. “As it is yours.”

“Yeah, but I can always get something from the action section. I was meaning to watch Fast and Furious 2 anyway.”

Still, she lingers.

Perhaps the Danvers sisters are cosmically bound to end your days of stillness.

You take a breath, examine the shades of blue on the colourful illustration of the cover. Your new apartment is smaller than your last, there are boxes spread all over the place, loose items still awaiting their permanent placement.

Enough reasons exist for you not to do what you do next. Enough reasons exist for you to turn away, get back to your hideaway and simply dive into the simple pleasure of reciting lines alongside the characters.

It is controversial, even. The emails in your inbox remain unopened despite your curiosity for a purpose, and doing what you do next contradicts said reason.

Still, she lingers and you sigh.

“Would you like to watch it with me?”

Kara grins.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

What you like about the younger Danvers is that she is cheerful, kind and positive. She is also incredibly smart and inquisitive.

As is your nature, you’d observed her during the short time you’d travelled together. With precise questions and pokes, Kara had wrapped more or less all of her friends around her finger. None of them had really noticed it, maybe too used to her ways to really think anything of it.

Truthfully, you don’t think she herself notices it, which is perhaps the part you admire most. Kara Danvers is simply genuinely nice enough for people to _want_ to open themselves up to her. For people to _want_ to have her open up to them.

She doesn’t say anything about the apartment or your sudden abandonment of the tour until the very end of the movie, when the final musical montage begins playing and none of you are really inclined to move.

“So…” She begins, searching through the remnants of half-popped kernels for something edible. Your breath catches for a second. “Have you been here for long?”

“Here as in National City?” You tease, buying yourself some time. “Yes, nearly thirteen years.”

“No, uhm… here.” She motions to the floor, seeming to regret the question already. “But, you know, that’s too personal, forget about it.”

“I moved in three days ago.”

Kara nods, not asking for any more and finding a few pieces of popcorn at the bottom of the bowl.

You could stop there. You could continue your life, even suggest another movie, if you weren’t ready to be alone again, but the words you truly want to say are right there, at the tip of your tongue, only waiting for your inflection.

Kara looks up from her quest, chewing, and gives you a closed-mouthed smile at meeting your gaze.

She truly does have a talent.

“I am recently divorced.” You say. She stops moving for a moment.

“I, uhm…”

“It’s all right. I’m all right.” You take pity on her confusion as to how to reply. It is, regardless, true enough. You are not _not_ all right. You are at a loss as to what to do with your life, with this middle-of-nowhere place living now seems to be, but, still, there is nothing truly _wrong_.

(a small, inconsequential part of you, the one you’ve been smothering for years, whose voice you have gradually been able to hear less and less, says this is the first time your life has ever resembled anything truly free).

Kara nods.

“Is that why you left early?”

“Yes. I had to resolve a few things.”

Another nod.

More words form on your tongue.

You’re unsure as to why she feels like someone you can talk to, why the blond hair and bright eyes and easy smile and babbling seem so secure.

“This is the first time I have said it, actually.”

“What? Divorced?”

“Yes.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Factual.” You say after a beat.

A third nod.

“Were you married for a long time?”

This time, you are the one to nod your head affirmatively.

Kara turns back to the bowl, but doesn’t look for any food.

“Is it lonely?”

“Perhaps.” Biting your lips, your brain begins to work in a way it hasn’t in a while. “Truthfully, though, I was always a bit lonely even beside him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We were lonely people pushing ahead and pretending we were in good company.”

Kara does not say anything.

“Are you?” You ask, turning towards her more fully.

“Am I what?”

“Lonely.”

The begging eyes you saw in the store return, followed by a damp coating.

“I’ve never been away from the people I love before. Not from _everyone_. And the office isn’t… receptive, I guess. But every bad situation is temporary, right?”

She tries to sound convincing, probably to you and to herself. It doesn’t completely work.

“And, you know, I always get a bit worried leaving Al because, well, she can be like you, I guess. She can be alone in a group of people and she doesn’t do too well with that.”

“I don’t think she would appreciate you telling me this.”

“Yeah, probably not….” Something occurs to her, making her head snap in your direction. “Please don’t put that in the book!”

You smirk.

“Don’t worry.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She munches on some more popcorn. “But I’m fine. This job is a gateway to my dream job, so I just gotta get through the adaptation period.”

“So, in short…”

Kara chuckles.

“A little bit.”

You remember, now quite vividly, the fear hidden behind the excitement of your immigration. The discomfort and the feeling of intense smallness in the middle of such a big and different city. At the time, you were thankful for Non. For his company, at least in part. He’d been your last real connection to the country you’d left behind. His feelings and new discoveries had been constant proof that you were, in fact, not dreaming.

With somehow obvious clarity, you realize your experience would have been quite different without him in those first few years and that is the first sliver of mourning you experience over his leaving.

It doesn’t last long.

“Well, if it helps, my Wednesday evenings are usually off.”

“Movie nights?” She wonders, glee perhaps as truthful as the child’s you’d encountered in the store as well.

“All right.”

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Locking the door behind Kara’s retreating form, one thing she’d said plays in your head as if on constant rotation.

_she doesn’t do too well with that_

Your throat dries at the thought, at the memory of Alex’s sharp voice over the phone, at even Cat realizing there was something off.

_she doesn’t do too well with that_

With being alone.

With being left behind.

Alone in a world she tries to make smaller through music.

It’s the vision of seven-year-old Alexandra playing all by herself in a sunlit attic which makes you turn on your laptop and log into your email account.

* * *

**Date:** Mon, 27 Sep 04 12:30 PM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Forgotten book

Hi! I know you only left yesterday, but the hotel contacted us saying they’d found a book you forgot in your room. Tim picked it up and I’m happy to say it is in perfect condition.

Let me know if you’d like us to send it to you.

x, Alex.

Ps: Since it _is_ The Plot Against America, I’m slightly inclined to think you didn’t leave it accidently. Were you trying to start the revolution by passing it forward?

* * *

A soft scoff escapes you. You had completely forgotten about the object, but her suggestion does seem like something your younger self would do.

* * *

**Date:** Thurs, 30 Sep 04 04:17 PM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Unusual events

So this really weird thing happened yesterday where I had a billion things to do (which, as you know, isn’t that unusual) and I was rushing to get through them. Luce asked why and I said something along the lines of “Because I’ll be late for Astra’s interview, of course”. She looked at me like I was absolutely out of my mind (which, to be fair, also isn’t unusual).

Then, earlier today, James saw me walking around and asked if it wasn’t time for the daily interviews. His mouth made a perfect O when he realised and because Winn is five years old and was passing by, he threw a cheeto into James’ mouth and ran around the hall yelling score.

I guess what I mean to say is that we all have grown used to you being around faster than we thought and I hope you’re okay.

x Alex.

* * *

You smile at the screen, clearly able to picture both scenes. You open the next email.

* * *

**Date:** Sun, 7 Oct 04 11:20 PM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Updates on project?

I have to admit I’m getting a bit anxious to see the book. How is that going?

By the way, we went to a bakery in Houston and they had these amazing sticky buns everyone fell in love with, but Fort Rozz’ are better.

x Alex.

* * *

Instinctively, the smell of the bready treat invades you.

Your stomach revolts.

* * *

**Date:** Wes, 10 Oct 04 11:11 AM MET

 **From:** “Alex Danvers” <alexD.contact@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>, “Catherine Grant” <chief.editor.cg@grantbooks.com>

 **Subject:** Clarification

Hello,

Just to clarify what I said during our phone meeting, you are free to use the pictures Astra has taken in any future interview about the memoir, but I would like only the ones I will select to be used within the book itself.

Thank you,

Alex Danvers

* * *

So that was when she lost her patience, then.

* * *

**Date:** Mon, 15 Oct 04 02:20 PM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** A personal favor

Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you, but my sister will be moving to National City later this week and I doubt that she knows anyone there besides you. I told her you will most likely be focused on finishing the book, so she won’t contact you, however, I did wonder if you could perhaps check in on her. Only if it isn’t too much of a bother, of course. 

Thank you regardless,

Alex.

* * *

Closing your eyes, you lean your forehead against the desk, guilt flooding your system.

Apparently, the distance you so instinctively tried to create between yourself and the singer had been successful. Alex sounded nothing like herself, but still trusted you enough to keep Kara company.

There’s a heaviness sitting in your chest, like regret materialized.

Sitting up straighter, you begin typing.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

**Date:** Thurs, 28 Oct 04 01:48AM MET

 **From:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** An apology

Dear Alex,

This is not an easy email for me to write. Partly, I wish I was not writing it at all, for I don’t frequently speak about myself, much less in written form. You, however, deserve an explanation to my lack of response to your last messages.

Admittedly, the reason for my impromptu exit from the tour was not good. As I know you will wonder, don’t worry, I have a perfect bill of health. The problem was rather more personal and extremely less factual. I’ll spare you (and myself) the details, but, in short, I am no longer married.

Although the adaptation has been challenging and has partially motivated my silence, I cannot blame it entirely on that.

I grew to trust you over the short time I accompanied you on tour and, though I’m usually the other way inclined, felt as if I could tell you about my life as well. I did not want to talk about this specific patch of my life and I knew I would do so with you.

You did not deserve my sudden detachment. Please know that I am truly sorry if I caused any upset.

Warm regards,

Astra.

Ps: I ended up running into Kara quite by accident. Rest assured she will now have someone to count on in National City.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

**Date:** Thurs, 28 Oct 04 11:39 AM MET

 **From:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Re: An Apology

I know your health is okay, but are you? You should be happy, Astra, and I hope this “patch” leads to that. Truth be told, yeah, I was upset, but I do understand not wanting to talk about something and shutting down. It’s not healthy, as you definitely know, but it’s not like I’m known for working through my crap in a healthy way.

If you ever decide you do want to talk, please remember I am here. Our time together was short, yeah, but it had its impacts.

Btw, thanks for the thing with Kara, I feel like I can relax a little bit.

xo, Alex

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

**Date:** Thurs, 28 Oct 04 05:13PM MET

 **From:** “Astra In-Ze” <inze_astra@hotmail.com>

 **To:** “AD” <drumsandmics@hotmail.com>

 **Subject:** Re: Re: An apology

I agree, our travels did have their impacts. I’m glad my silence didn’t have one as great.

Also, I have to confess I have been neglecting my email, though this time for quite different reasons. Maybe admitting this to you is not ideal, taking our professional relation into account, but Cat has been pressing me to finish the book and I have been stalling by not replying.

If you wish to continue our conversation, may I suggest we use text messages for the meantime? My cellphone number is: 619-555-0114.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

Kara shows up every Wednesday night for three weeks and Alex texts you every other day. You don’t talk about Non or your failed marriage. You sign the papers officially on a Friday morning and, that day, Alex calls.

The constant company somehow finishes clearing your mind. You finish unboxing your belongings and, one week after watching your favorite movie with someone for the first time, the book doesn’t seem as daunting.

You take another week to finish, but there’s more confidence in your click on “send”.

“ _Fucking finally_.” Cat’s two-word reply is characteristically her and makes you proud.

On the third installment of movie night, Kara had decided on Silver Age Disney pictures, which you haven’t watched in almost twenty years.

“Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” She asks while you place the DVD into the disc drive.

“Nothing, why?”

“How do you mean, nothing?” Kara sounds surprised.

“May I remind you that that is an extremely North American holiday and that I am, in fact, _not_ North American?”

Turning around and taking your usual place, you make the necessary adjustments with the remote control.

“So you don’t celebrate it.”

“I don’t celebrate it.”

“Well…. Mom and Alex are coming here, to National City, to spend it with me. Wanna come?”

Your arm, extended to press play, stops midair.

“Thank you, but…” You are speechless. It’s your turn to be surprised. “I really don’t see any value in the celebration and it… is a family event.”

“It really won’t be any trouble, the more, the merrier.”

“I really am grateful.” You lower your arm, meet her eyes so she knows you mean it. “But I can’t.”

“Alright.” She nods, settling in.

The movie starts.

When the intro begins to play, she pipes up again.

“My parents weren’t either, you know?”

“Weren’t what?”

“North-Americans.”

You frown and wait.

“I contacted the adoption agency and got my birth parents’ details. They were Kryptonians.”

You pause the movie, look at her again, more shocked than before.

“Don’t tell Alex!” she exclaims, much like she had the first time she’d come over.

A smirk appears much the same, but now you feel the need to reach over and squeeze her wrist. Touching Kara is easier, simpler than her sister. Most likely because of the lack of spark when you look at her.

~~_lovelovelove_ ~~

One more week passes. Kara insists on a movie night, despite the fact her mother is set to arrive that same night. When you’re finishing preparing the popcorn in advance, your phone buzzes with a message. It’s Alex.

* * *

Heads-up ;P

* * *

You don’t really understand it, but your doorbell rings before you get a chance to reply. You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, draping it on a hook your frequent guest had bought and placed on the second week.

Placing loose strands of hair behind your ears, you turn the doorknob, and the culprit for the hook smiles triumphantly from the hallway.

“Well, you know the saying, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad….” Kara laughs, brushing past you and leaving her companion standing outside.

Besides Kara’s vacant spot, Alex gazes at you, shoulders slumped and hands shoved into the front pockets of her jeans.

Spark in full force.

This feels like a new beginning.


End file.
